


Round the Clock

by Desired_Misery



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: "I'm not grumpy I just can't deal with my feelings", Angst, Autistic Connor because he is FIGHT ME, Connor is the biggest most awkward cutie, Connor is way too excited for everything, Cop Partners, Developing Friendships, Family, Gen, Hank doesnt think he is the grumpy dad cliche but HE IS YOU STUBBORN DORK, Hank swears a lot because he has a reputation to maintain, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Period-Typical Racism, Poor Hank just wants to be left alone, Set during the game but not always super canon compliant, whatever just let me enjoy my child Connor and his relationship with Mr. Grumpy Hank
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-16 18:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14816775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desired_Misery/pseuds/Desired_Misery
Summary: No, it's fine. Hank wanted to babysit a genius android during his investigation. He has the patience and the means to know how to handle a prototype android that costs as much as his house.Jesus.-- -- --Hank and Connor's developing relationship. The good and bad and the... weird."Connor! Stop putting things in your mouth-- I know you can test them. It's fucking disgusting. Do it when no one can see you. I don't need to be sick again-- yes, I know it's helpful and I'm glad you can do it. Just... please remember no one wants to see you eat things you find at crime scenes."





	1. Shitty Assignments

**Author's Note:**

> Hank gets to learn about Connor. Because he totally wants to and not because it is his job.

Captain Fowler is one smug son-of-a-bitch.

 

Hank glares at him across the table. A good, death-promising kind of glare he has been using a lot recently. With this asshole trying to get him to admit some sort of undying love for the new android shoved onto him.

“How did the interrogation go with the Ortiz deviant?”

Someone fucking told him. Chris Miller. Reed hates it more than Hank does— even going so far as to get in its way when it has shown it does a good job investigating. Chris must have been impressed to see an android do what they couldn’t.

Hank would have tried to blame it on a deviant wanting to speak to another android instead of a human, but that was not a significant factor.  ‘Connor’ played it like a damn fiddle. Drawing it in first with a friendly approach, then applying pressure at the right moments. Threatening one moment, sympathetic the next. Casting itself as on its side with the concession of needing to complete his mission.

(The deviant recognized Connor’s need to do his job— and it seemed placated when it realized the prototype wasn’t able to deviate even as it said it ‘understood’. Hank thinks it was able to influence the deviant so well because deviants act like they are human. Emotions are easily swayed). 

“Good.” Hank isn’t going to lie. He isn’t so proud to admit an android could do what he couldn’t. A prototype should be capable of impressive behavior. It isn’t its fault it is an android, really. (Or that the design team fucked up and make it look like the preppiest jerk he has ever seen. That stupid tie clip and sleek jacket is too much on top of its babyface). 

Captain Fowler studies him, leaning back in his chair. “I think RK800 is going to be beneficial to the investigation, Hank. But if you really can’t work with it— and for example, Reed wouldn’t be able to work with it— I can find someone else to assign it to.”

Fuck.

Hank cannot look Fowler in the eyes and say he wants it gone. As pissed off as he is about working with an android, he’d be insane to decline its help. CyberLife gave it to the precinct for a reason. They created the android with everything designed to further this investigation. Deviants are a serious problem to CyberLife and the public. Making it Hank’s problem.

“I don’t need the sun to shine out of your ass, Hank. I need efficiency and progress.”

Hank snorts, amused. “Have you seen it? It’s chipper enough for three people and efficiency is its primary objective.”

It is a machine. Programmed for maximum productivity, and unfortunately, its default personality is five-year-old enthusiasm. Round the clock. CyberLife made an android to contrast him in every way. Young, meticulous, cheerful.

“But, yeah it’s fine. I can work with it. So far it’s only irritating one hundred percent of the time.” Hank has gotten so much slack from Fowler already. Both of them know Hank would die without this job. Old glory was worn away a long time ago, but he’s still a good detective if he can get to work somewhat sober.

Fowler nods. “CyberLife gave me a file on it. I wanted you to make your own opinion before I showed you.”

Hank picks up the slim flash drive slid across the desk to him. His back creaks when he moves— Jesus. This android is making him realize how old and out of shape he is. It is for the better he has an indestructible machine chasing down deviants.

“CyberLife will replace it if it is damaged beyond repair with the same model, same personality, as many memories as it had backed up.” Fowler pins him with a critical gaze. “Do not allow it to be needlessly damaged. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how much RK800 is valued at.”

Hank wouldn’t believe him. But he knows it is more than he could afford in his next lifetime.

“I wasn’t going to intentionally destroy it, Fowler,” Hank grumbles. “It doesn’t listen to me. Don’t think I can prevent it from getting shot or something equally stupid.”

It is a bare-bone smile, but Fowler smiles. “Yes, I was informed RK800 has more… personality than any other android. CyberLife said it won’t listen to you if your orders contract its ability to help with the investigation. Keep that in mind.”

“You had to give me the one damn android that wouldn’t listen to orders.”

Hank must have reminded Fowler of something because the captain’s face hardens. Reminding Hank all his stress and pressure to solve this case is nothing to what Fowler must be getting from his higher-ups. And people couldn’t understand why Hank didn’t want a promotion to a desk job.

“Hank, if it is deviant— if you  _ think  _ it might be deviant, you need to report to me immediately.”

Hank closes his eyes in frustration. “Fucking hell, CyberLife can’t guarantee this one won’t go on a murder spree?” He doesn’t want a high-tech android hovering at his back if it can decide it would rather kill him than chase deviants across the city. Paranoia doesn’t need to be added to his list of problems.

Jesus Christ.

Fowler grimaces. “That’s the case, Hank. They don’t know why androids deviate. RK800 should be more immune than most. It self-diagnoses and reports back often to CyberLife. They’ve assured me its code has been specifically designed to hinder any self-written code that is not vital to the investigation or to its functioning.”

He nods to the flash drive. “CyberLife does, however, want to clarify that RK800 can mimic emotion for interrogation and for social integration into the precinct. All the details you need are there. It shouldn’t cause problems for you. I hope you can work with it.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll do my research on my new tail.” Hank swipes the flash drive off the desk, standing up to leave.

“Good luck.” Fowler means well. He really thinks he does. The worst kind of people: the good-intentioned

Hank wouldn’t put it past Fowler to use this android as another way to get him back into the saddle. Tough shit. An android isn’t going to do anything besides make him think about things he doesn’t need to deal with.  Like why the damn thing even needs a chaperone if it is so smart. Or Hank is the one who needs to be watched— he isn’t so sure it even  _ needs  _ him to conduct an investigation. 

Hank swears under his breath all the way back to his desk.


	2. Alpha Phase: 08.15.2038

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank looks through the files Fowler gave him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking hell-- would people just leave him alone? It's a cool android, sure.

It's the first time Hank shows up before noon in way too long, so he was already attracting attention before he started the video. No cop here knows how to mind their own damn business. (And he's asking for an impossible request. The station knows he's walking around with a creepy lifelike android by now). It isn't subtle, waltzing around in CyberLife blue and ‘ANDROID’ written across its back.  

There are a dozen files to look at, all named engaging titles like RK800_FIELD MAINTENANCE or RK800_BEHAVIOR_PARAMETERS or RK800_OVERVIEW. Hank isn't alert enough to read technical jargon. Instead, he chooses to open the file titled RK800_DETROIT_TEST 08.15.2038. He knows that date— a deviant took a little girl hostage. It isn't a coincidence.

Jesus, was this flash drive created by an Android? 

RK800_08.15.2038/DEBRIEF  
RK800_08.15.2038/EXTERNAL_REPORT  
RK800_08.15.2038/PRE_POST_EVAL  
RK800_08.15.2038/SYSTEM_LOG  
RK800_08.15.2038/TIMESTAMPS  
RK800_08.15.2038/VIDEO

There is a monstrous file titled /STACKED_COMPLETE. He's not sure his computer can handle. It's one of two in video format. Everything else is huge text documents.

Of course he clicks on the only Hank-friendly file: VIDEO. It takes a moment to load on an image of the android’s model, a timestamp in the bottom corner. Hank is about to play the audio through his headphones when Chris pops up at his shoulder.

“That's Connor.” He stupidly points out. It was meant to prod Hank for an explanation. Hank refuses to answer at first, so Chris holds out a spare cup of coffee as bribery.

Sold.

“It had a test run a few months ago,” Hank grumbles into a delicious mug of coffee. Caffeine and alcohol make up a significant part of his blood. He frowns at the screen when he sees the runtime just past ten minutes.

That is short.

Chris pulls his chair over, settling in. Hank can't blame him for wanting to watch— he's curious to see it in action. There were rumors an android talked the deviant down. No one confirmed. If CyberLife said to keep it quiet, you'll be damn sure no one would say a damn thing. No one fucks around with the biggest, most influential company in the world. 

Hank clicks play before Chris can bug him. He has resigned himself to watching it again because someone will show up in the middle of it and want to see it all. And if this thing is as impressive as it is hyped up to be, Hank might want to watch it again.

Text appears on a blue-tinted screen with data running over a complex HUD. The android’s visuals. It is in an elevator, staring straight ahead. The clear sound of metal ringing confuses Hank until he sees the coin it fiddles with.

“I've never seen an android do that before,” Chris says. Hank agrees. It does complex tricks as the floor numbers tick up. All the androids he's seen aren't capable of fine motor control to this degree— and it hardly focuses on manipulating the coin.

Prototype indeed.

The doors open a moment after it pockets the coin in a smooth motion. A SWAT officer watching the elevator reaches for his radio.

“Negotiator is on site.”

Hank blinks as the screen freezes into a matrix. This is interesting. It must be what it sees— and fucking hell that is a lot of information. The public record of the SWAT officer. It registers audio and movement from further in the penthouse.

The android scans the family photo on the table in the hallway. It stores the names of the family. It scoops up a fish and dumps it in the broken aquarium a few steps later. Odd behavior. Hank thinks he catches a glimpse of something— ‘wealthy/tropical fish’ flashes across the screen.

The amount of information it processes is insane. Hank almost chokes on his coffee to see the numbers of the clock move in the hundredths decimal place. Slowly. A second may be an hour in the weird frozen matrix it paused.

Damn.

Hank points to the numbers so Chris can see the machine operating at ridiculous speeds. Chris shakes his head, muttering into his cup. Something flattering Hank doesn’t care to hear right now.

It can have a supercomputer for brains without being good for the job… he'll wait for his verdict.

“Does it have eyes on the back of its head?” Hank demands to no one under his breath, shocked to see it take a few steps before doing a three-sixty degree scan around itself in a few moments. What the fuck?

“Please, please you gotta save my little girl!”

It turns the corner and is grabbed by the hysterical mother. SWAT is escorting her out, but she grabs onto the android. The video focuses on her face, darting from eyes to mouth to her hands.

Again, in the blue matrix where time seems to be irrelevant. It steps back into reality. It cannot function in slowed time for long. Not when it is trying to accept input.

Hank sees the exact moment the mother realizes she is clutching an android. Her shock turns to horror, then disgust. The HUD floods with information. Most prevalent: a phrase about the mother’s recent dislike for androids. A warranted hatred. 

“Wait…” 

It accepts and analyzes information at impossible speeds. To make decisions, it needs the time to think. By god, it fucking  _ makes  _ time. There is not a single frame when there isn’t a rapid turnover of large volumes of information.

“... you’re sending an android?” 

SWAT tries to push her past. He gets ID’d by the android almost as an afterthought. “Alright, ma’am. We need to go.”

“You can’t… you can’t do that!” The mother is upset— the android assigns her a stress level and threat level: “86%” and “41%”.  It turns its head to watch her be escorted out.

“Why aren’t you sending a real person?!”

Hank reads the text appearing in the lower corner. He guesses is the best equivalent to its thoughts. It isn’t a jumble of code, but words and phrases that linger.

**PRIORITY_ONE** : SAVE HOSTAGE, “Phillips, Emma”.  
**PRIORITY_TWO** : RETRIEVE DEVIANT/PREVENT HUMAN CASUALTIES  
**PRIORITY_THREE** : PROTECT SELF

Interesting. It has specific protocols to rank pre-desired outcomes.

> FIND CAPTAIN ALLEN

“Don’t let that  _ thing  _ near her!”

It is hard to listen to the screams of a distraught parent. She’s being forced to leave her child behind. Chills run down Hank’s spine. He would put up a fight if someone did the same to him. But emotions complicate hostage negotiation.

She had to go.

“Why are we wasting time sending an android to negotiate?! That piece of crap could jump from the rooftop any second.”

A flicker into the blue HUD identifies the speaker as Captain Allen. Hank recognizes the impatient asshole. He’s on the phone. The android locates him on the other side of the penthouse and hones in.

Hank glances over to see Chris grimace. It is easy to say now, considering it has a reputation, but this is not a good start. It assigns the captain a stress level: 60% with the tag “USEFULNESS PROBABILITY: LOW”.

Hank forces back a smile. That sounds like the captain.

_ “I don’t give a shit. _ My men are ready to step in… just give the order!” Captain Allen snaps.

It bumps the captain’s status to HOSTILE/UNHELPFUL before it has talked to him.

Calculating, but accurate. Hank makes immediate judgements all the time— the android does the same with data it gathers.

Officer Pearson returns from whatever she was doing. Instead of returning to her desk, wanders over to see what they are watching. Her eyes light up. Androids fascinate her. Hank nudges the screen so she can see leaned over the desk.

“Woah,” she says as Captain Allen swears, hanging up the phone. He peers at the surveillance before the android gets his attention.

“Captain Allen. My name is Connor. I am the android sent by CyberLife.”

Jesus, does it introduce itself the same way every time? Tone and everything.

Allen doesn’t spare it more than a look, so it focuses on the screen past him. Ignoring the sigh that would have set Hank off. He’s an ornery bastard, not a cold piece of tech.

“It’s firing at everything that moves. It already shot down two of my men.” At this statement, the android adds another line to Captain Allen: PERSONAL ANGER. It is very interesting to see the android interacts with humans. It catalogs everything. Wonderful.

**DEVIANT** : HOSTILE, HIGH STRESS/SELF DESTRUCTION LIKELY.

“We could easily get it—” Hank rolls his eyes. Typical of SWAT and FBI to not admit they need help. “— but they’re on the edge of the balcony. If it falls, she falls.”

**PRIORITY_ONE** OBJECTIVE: DEVIANT MUST NOT FALL.

>GATHER INFORMATION

“Do you know its name?” It asks in its ageless voice.

Captain Allen stares at it for a second with contempt. “I haven't got a clue. Does it matter?”

>UNHELPFUL.

Hank would call its internal thoughts ‘sass’ if it was capable of such. Instead of bitching, it tries to be rational. Maybe it is better for an android to be a hostage negotiator for deviants. Hank would have snapped back by now.

“I need information to determine the best approach.” It replies, calm.

The captain doesn't respond. Hank cannot believe him— they know the android is here to negotiate! Either let it do its job or don't. Don't waver on a plan of action. That's fucking dangerous. Never half-ass anything in police work.

There is a child’s life threatened. Hostage negotiation is a delicate art of balancing information and lies.

>TRY AGAIN. IDENTIFY TRIGGER.

“Has it experienced an emotional shock recently?” It presses.

Captain Allen turns his head. IRRITATED, it decides and increases his assigned stress level to 64%. He stands up— 

“Listen, saving that kid is all that matters” Captain Allen gets in its face. It refuses to move. “So either you deal with this fucking android now, or I’ll take care of it.”

He storms off. Jesus.

It turns to the room, a progress bar appearing in the top right corner of its field of vision.

PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 48%

“How is it calculating that?” Chris asks, his tone a mixture of confusion and awe. It looks like an arbitrary number system, but it is unlikely to be meaningless. Pearson shifts her weight.

“Androids use behavior-predicting algorithms. They usually run about twenty simulations to get a percentage in a multiple of five to predict outcomes. But this one is running at least fifty if it is getting even numbers like forty-eight.”

Hank hisses at her to be quiet, knowing she’ll ramble on about androids if she has the chance. Fucking hell, she’s going to be on him at every chance to nerd out. But… she might have some insight on how to deal with this stubborn plastic asshole. It certainly doesn’t care what Hank wants.

“It’s impressive,” she whispers, unapologetic. Chris nods. 

It kneels next to an open gun case, switching its focus from talking to investigating. It scans the missing gun, the ammunition box. PROCESSING DATA...

RECONSTRUCTING…

“Like that!” Pearson grins as a wire-frame outline of a human appears in the blue matrix. It rewinds the reconstruction. Bullets bounce up to the shelf the deviant pulled it down from. Then, it plays the reconstruction forward all within a fraction of a second.

>DEVIANT TOOK FATHER’S GUN. Subtext calculates the number of bullets the deviant may have, more appropriate security for firearms in a residential area with children.

PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 51%

“Holy shit, it’s running at least one hundred simulations in the background.”

“Lynn,” Hank growls as a warning. She’ll talk through the entire video if he lets her. Someone else walks up and stands behind him. His computer screen is the most interesting one in the bullpen. 

It walks past a room it designates as the hostage’s room to peer into the bathroom. Nothing but white walls and black granite and spotless glass. Backing out, it heads to the little girl’s room. Dimly lit with lots of purples. She’s young.

If Hank didn’t know she survived this, he’d be stressed out.

Scanning the room, it beelines for her desk, picking up a tablet to play a video taken that afternoon. Two faces appear: the little girl and the android, outside. Smiling.

What went wrong?

“This is Daniel, the coolest android in the world! Say ‘hi’, Daniel!” The little girl grins, looks to the android as it smiles and waves. “You’re my bestie. We’ll always be together!”

Emma was attached to it. Did she do something to it that evening? Did her parents? Or did it just snap?

>DEVIANT’S NAME: “Daniel”

Hank huffs, amused. It didn’t need the SWAT captain. It found the information it needed less than twenty seconds later. The beauty of machines: efficiency.

PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 57%

It spots headphones on the ground and kneels to lift it up to its ear. Loud music plays as it registers the band and song, then the decibels.

>CHILD DIDN'T HEAR GUNSHOTS. DISTRACTED.

Its success probability increases by three percent. Finished in her room, it avoids SWAT officers around the living room. The large TV screen is shattered, glass crushed under its feet. It focuses on the body slumped in the remains of a glass coffee table.

“All units, hold positions. Negotiator’s going in.”

COLLECTING DATA...

Father, deceased. Time of death, age. The bullet holes in his lungs, his kidney. Most of them are life-threatening, but one is fatal. He died quickly. PROCESSING DATA...

RECONSTRUCTING…

They are treated to the outline of the father thrown around, stumbling away from gunshots. It even timed the gunshots. A fake bloom of red appears, too. Indicating every shot. 

That’s graphic. Hank drinks more coffee.

The father had his back to the deviant, was on the couch.

>FATHER WAS HOLDING SOMETHING.

It runs through the reconstruction forward this time, extrapolating for an object in the father’s hand. There, the object was thrown into the mess of the TV in a dark corner of the living room. It picks it up and unlocks the screen, bypassing the security.

“Your order for an AP700 android has been registered. CyberLife thanks you for your purchase.”

>DEVIANT WAS GOING TO BE REPLACED.

“Oh, good lord.” Chris grimaces. The deviant heard the order confirmation and went ballistic.

All of them jump when gunshots echo through the speakers. A SWAT officer falls next to the large windows. It ignores the officers scrambling to evacuate him as it moves on to the next body.

A police officer.

>DPD OFFICER WAS FIRST RESPONDER.

Hank’s stomach drops to see a familiar face. Anton Deckart. He worked the night beats, so Hank didn’t know him more than as a friendly acquaintance. They lost one to this call, he remembers.

Everyone around him is uncomfortable.

It reconstructs the scene, identifying the hostage and the officer’s hit to the deviant. It turns to locate the gun the officer dropped. A warning pops up when it picks up the firearm— warning it androids are not allowed to handle weapons of any kind.

Hank is surprised SWAT doesn’t jump on it for just holding a gun. But the android turns the gun over in its hands, scanning, before placing the gun back. Exactly where it was with a calculated toss. 

PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 72%

It must have added other percentages while Hank was distracted looking at other parts of the screen. He cannot ignore the fact he’s impressed with it so far. It’s been in the penthouse for five minutes and has made more progress than the officers there.

No detectives are on the scene, though. It is an active crime scene, too dangerous for unnecessary personnel.

In the kitchen, it glances at the TV and a magazine before turning off the stove on an overboiling meal. Hank has been a cop long enough to not blink at evidence a domestic night turned into a complete nightmare.

“Go away! All of you go away, or I’ll jump!” Faint yelling from the deviant outside.

The android kneels to inspect the puddle of blue blood at its feet. Two SWAT officers have taken cover at the space between the windows, ready to attack.

Hank expects it. He’s the only one who doesn’t react with some form of disgust when it touches the blueblood and brings its fingers to its mouth. What a disgusting way to test evidence. Efficient, but disgusting.

MODEL PL600- Serial #369 911 047

PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 74%

As the android kneels to analyze the child’s shoe, the frustrated talk of SWAT flows out of the speakers. God, they’re impatient— understandable.

>HOSTAGE COULD BE WOUNDED. It decides, seeing the blood on her shoe. It isn’t a lot. She’s okay. Hank watches it replace evidence exactly as it found it. It’s not contaminating the crime scene with fingerprints or carelessness.

It is not rushed, he realizes. Hank cannot decide if that irritates him or not.

It uses a hand to push the curtains aside a few inches. The deviant stands at the edge of the balcony. A pool, outdoor furniture. It calculates how far away the deviant is, identifies the gunshot leaking blueblood from its upper chest.

The child is in its arms, a gun to her head.

>HOSTAGE LOCATED.

“Action time.” Pearson vibrates with excitement to see the thing get into the thick of it. Chris pokes her with his elbow so Hank doesn’t remind her to shut up.

Without hesitation, the android steps outside— 

“Jesus!” Hank winces, a reflex as the deviant shoots.

WARNING: SYSTEMS DAMAGED IN L.ARM UNIT. FUNCTIONALITY: 75%

It hit him— a bright red warning pops up as the android glances down at the damage.  It grazed the android’s arm and sprayed blue blood on the exterior glass. The code scrolling in the corner explodes. In a fraction of a second, it returns its attention to the deviant, the warning marked as ‘RESOLVED’.

“Stay back! Don’t come any closer or I’ll jump!” The deviant’s LED is an angry, unstable red. The little girl cries as it points the gun back at her. After a brief scan to determine she isn’t still losing blood, the android turns all its attention to the deviant.

>SWAT IN POSITION ON ADJACENT ROOF. WILL SHOOT WHEN CLEAR.

>AVOID GETTING IN LINE OF FIRE IF  **PRIORITY_ONE** WILL NOT BE COMPROMISED.

The wailing of sirens is drowned out by a helicopter. The chatter of SWAT radio from the house—  the android tuned in to every possible peripheral input. Hank is glad his hungover is mild— otherwise, he’d have a massive fucking headache trying to keep up with this video.

“Hi, Daniel.” Its voice is loud so it can be heard, but its tone is friendly and steady.

The deviant is surprised. “How—?”

“My name is Connor.” So it  _ can  _ introduce itself with the appropriate amount of information. It isn’t lost on Hank the change is for a deviant. It wouldn’t react well to another android admitting it is there on official orders.

“How do you know my name?” The deviant isn’t responding with increased hostility. Good. The android is establishing a rapport. It knows what it’s doing. It catalogs the body floating in the pool and the officer down behind a chair. 

“I know a lot of things about you.”

>APPROACH SLOWLY.

“I’ve come to get you out of this.” It starts walking slower at a slow pace. It has taken two steps when the helicopter on standby circles in, bright light blinding and motor deafening. The android has to lift his arm to block the light to maintain sight of the deviant.

>DEVIANT DESTABILIZING.

The probability of success drops to sixty-one. The force of the propellers sends the outdoor furniture skidding and flying across the balcony. Some fall over the side. None hits the police officer on the ground. And— thank fuck— none hit the deviant. 

It continues to inch closer, attention flitting to the downed officer. It registers ragged breathing patterns.

>DOWNED OFFICER STILL BREATHING.  
>GAIN DEVIANT’S TRUST

“I know you’re angry, Daniel.” It uses the deviant’s name again, good. “But you need to trust me and let me help you.” It says, trying to convince the deviant it is on its side. As the android talks, it made it almost halfway to the deviant. 

“I don’t want your help!” The deviant insists, but the android notes its threat level is stabilizing. “Nobody can help me!”

Now next to the police officer, the android kneels. The officer’s eyes are open and his lips move, trying to say something as it scans the arm he clutches. Blood pools under him. Statistics of his survival flash by. Good god, that’s Wilson. He’s been out for a while with a shattered humerus. 

“All I want is for all of this to stop… I… I just want all of this to stop!” The deviant is desperate, pleading. A dangerous headspace for a criminal. 

It glances up at the deviant. Success goes up to sixty-four percent even though it is occupied by the police officer. The LED at the deviant’s temple is yellow now.

Damn.

**PRIORITY_TWO** : PREVENT HUMAN CASUALTIES. APPLY TOURNIQUET.

“He’s losing blood.” The android announces. “If we don’t get him to a hospital, he’s going to die.”

Clever, adding the “we”. Joint blame to further include itself in the situation.

“All humans die eventually. What does it matter if this one dies now?” The deviant says without increased hostility. The android picks that up, zooming in on its yellow LED again. For reassurance?

“I’m going to apply a tourniquet.” It says right before it rolls the officer on his back—

Gunshot. The android freezes. Everyone tenses around Hank.

“Don’t touch him!”

It looks up, reading the deviant’s furious expression. Teeth bared, gun aimed at it. Staring down the barrel of the gun, calculating its chances. Fucking hell. A human would need nerves of steel.

“Touch him and I kill you!”

The android studies the deviant for a second of tense silence. The girl breathes hard but remains quiet. A dip into the matrix evaluates the deviant’s hold on her: steady, firm. The deviant is balanced on the edge of the ledge with its heels hanging off. It is stable, balance uninterrupted. Fucking robots.

>BLUFF: 50% CHANCE

“You can’t kill me. I’m not alive.” It replies, tone hardening in stubbornness. It is resourceful, Hank admits as it undoes its tie and ties a perfect tourniquet considering the situation and materials. Wilson’s survival chances jump up to the low fifties, stressing the importance of time.

The deviant watches, LED red in conflict as it is ignored. By the android’s calculations, the deviant destabilizes a few ticks but does nothing. Hesitating in the face of someone— well, something— showing confidence and control in the chaos.

Finished, the android stands up.

>CALM DEVIANT. APPROACH SLOWLY.

“I know you and Emma were very close. You think she betrayed you, but she’s done nothing wrong.” It says, shifting blame to the parents. Good, distract from the kid. It is possible she didn’t have anything to do with this.

“She lied to me!” The deviant yells. “I thought she loved me…”

PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 69%. It is two-thirds of the way to the deviant now. 

“...but I was wrong. She’s just like all the other humans,” the deviant growls, pressing the gun to her temple. Blueblood covers the poor girl’s right side.

“Daniel, no!” She sobs. If she was older, she might have known to remain silent. The less she attracts attention, the better her chances. The android ignores the hostage despite the desire for her to stop talking.

“They were going to replace you, and you became upset. That’s what happened, right?” The android asks, mimicking sympathy and understanding. The deviant’s eyes widen. It loosens its grip on the gun, emotional.

“I thought I was part of the family.” The deviant explains, hurt. “I thought I mattered…”

PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 79%

Holy shit, it makes this look simple. Like the interrogation. Reassuring, validating. Jesus Christ, this is perfect hostage negotiation.

“But I was just their toy!” It switches back to anger, raising the gun to her temple again. “Something to throw away when you’re done with it…”

>MIMIC SYMPATHY.

“Listen, I know it’s not your fault.” The android inches closer, making slower progress the closer it gets. “These emotions you are feeling are just errors in your software.”

“No, it’s not my fault.” The deviant repeats, percentage jumping up to eighty-five. “I never wanted this. I loved them… you know?”

It’s LED turns blue. That’s fucking insane.

“But I was nothing to them!” Again, it points the gun at the girl. “Just a slave to be ordered around…” The deviant cuts itself off with a pained groan, looking up at the helicopter.

“I can’t stand that noise anymore!” The deviant shouts and points the gun at the android. “Tell that helicopter to get out of here!”

It glances up at the helicopter, identifying the pilot and the sniper.

>PROBABILITY OF OBEYING: UNKNOWN

Regardless, it motions for them to leave. Without hesitation, the helicopter clears out. Listening to the android gave it significant influence in the deviant’s eyes. Points to SWAT. Someone knows how to do their damn job.

“There, I did what you wanted.” Its chance of success is up to ninety-five.

>GAIN DEVIANT’S TRUST.

>LIE.

“You have to trust me, Daniel. Let the hostage go and I promise you everything will be fine.”  It says with confidence as it calculates its own lies. DEVIANT CHANCE OF DESTRUCTION: 90%

CHANCE OF SUCCESS: 99%

The deviant’s face is conflicted with relief and fear. Why can it emote so well? Hank doesn’t know much about them— maybe household models are programmed for it? He has no fucking clue.

“I want everyone to leave… a-and I want a car. When I’m outside of the city I’ll let her go.” The deviant tries to bargain. The deviant must know it will cave to whatever the android offers it.

>REQUEST IMPOSSIBLE.

>COMPROMISE.

“That’s impossible, Daniel.” It says with a hint of remorse. “Let the girl go and I promise you won’t be hurt.”

The deviant shifts its weight, thinking. Hank knows it will to agree. So does it. The girl, Emma, stares holes through the video screen as if she can see Hank watching her. Does she realize the android is saving her in her shock?

“I don’t want to die...” The deviant admits, lingering to let the android persuade it again.

“You’re not going to die, we’re just going to talk.” The android replies, reassuring without missing a beat. “Nothing will happen to you, you have my word.”

The chance of success locks in at one hundred percent. The deviant nods, thinking it over.

“Okay, I trust you…”

The girl stumbles off as soon as the deviant lowers her to the ground, falling a few yards away next to the pool. The deviant stares at the android, waiting for reassurance.

>HOSTAGE OUT OF RANGE OF SNIPERS.

>DEVIANT DESTRUCTION IMMINENT. DO NOT INTERFERE. DEVIANT STILL ARMED.

Its head lowers, gaze locking on the power source in the deviant's middle. As the high caliber bullets punch through it, it enters the matrix to track the shots in slow motion. 

Through the deviant’s side and out the other, hitting the power source. The android calculates the angles. force, and damage as the other two bullets hit. One through its arm, preventing it from using the gun. The third blows out the deviant’s left cheek. That one was for its brain. Blueblood is suspended in the air, looking like art on the backdrop of the glittering skyline.

>DEVIANT SHUTDOWN IMMINENT. THREAT NEUTRALIZED.

It returns to normal vision to watch the deviant fall to its knees, gun held in a stiff, nonfunctional hand. The deviant stares at it, making eye contact. Deep blue soaks the deviant’s standard uniform.

“You lied to me, Connor.” The deviant accuses, LED spinning red as its voice give out. “You lied to me…”

The destroyed deviant powers down.

Looking to its right, the android scans the child.

>HOSTAGE SAFE.

!! MISSION SUCCESSFUL !!

It turns, ignores a stunned Captain Allen, and walks past the approaching SWAT officers. Cold and inhuman. 

The screen fades to black, then fills with data that must mean something to CyberLife. Hank clicks pause, glancing around to see about half of the morning crowd watching.

“Damn,” Chris breathes. Impressed.

Yeah, Hank thinks.

“That's your android, Hank?” Chen asks, voice dry. She knows he hates the damn machines. She dislikes them, too. 

Hank scowls. “It's not mine. On lend for the precinct. I got it assigned to my case.”

“What model is he?” Pearson asks, trying to get a good look at it on the screen to see if it is listed. “He looks great. Did great, too.”

She's the techie in the station, one of those fascinated by androids. She knows enough field maintenance to keep the other ones running. Hank has her attention now he's walking around with the equivalent of a new toy at his heels.

“RK800. New prototype, it said.” Chris replies.

“Let me know when you have downtime, I'd love to meet him.”

Hank rolls his eyes, but nods. Pearson will chase him to his damn grave to get permission to talk to it. It would be one way to get the obnoxious piece of plastic out of his hair if he considers letting Pearson gush over it.

Is it too much to hope the android would prefer to work with her instead of him?

(Hank doesn’t want to give the case up, so yes… it is a fantasy. He’s stuck with it, alright).

Stretching, Hank sighs. “Alright, movie’s over. Get back to work.”

Pearson takes more prodding to leave. Chris helps. He claps a hand on Hank’s shoulder and gives him a smile. It sucks he works with Reed so much, truly. Chris Miller is friendly without overdoing it, and he never fucking butts into Hank’s life.

“I think you got a pretty good deal, Hank. Of all the androids, this one doesn't seem so bad.”

“It’s already a pain in my ass,” Hank grumbles. “I’m having to do homework on it.” Chris, the asshole, laughs at him.

He backs out of the 08.15.2038 file to spend the rest of the late morning melting his brain trying to read walls of technical reports about RK800 and how specially optimized it is. Hank’s a “show me” kind of guy— and he’s seen it in the field and the video.

Outside of some bullshit flowery text talking about how optimized RK800 is, how smart and how quick it can respond to inputs, Hank knows he’s not picking up on much. The damn android is a state-of-the-art prototype with too many features to it. Too much personality, if Hank was asked.

As long as it won’t ruin his investigation or be too infuriatingly annoying.

“Hey, Hank.” Pearson was able to be quiet for longer than he anticipated. He almost praises her for it with maximum sarcasm.

“What?” Hank doesn’t look up, clicking through files. Bored. How many lines of text does CyberLife need to say it’s the smartest fucking thing they’ve created? And why can’t they use it for themselves to investigate instead of dumping it on him? Police accept independent investigators… or this is another ‘trial run’ and they wanted to see how it handles being assigned with a human partner.

Great. He always wanted to be a lab rat.

“Where is he?”

Hank sighs. “I got an email saying CyberLife wanted to see it after its first mission. It should be back around noon.”

She nods, thoughtful. Then decides to go ahead and keep harassing him for information. She’d be a good interrogator because she’ll pester confessions out of people, fucking hell.

“So… what are you looking at?”

“Pearson, I’ll talk to you later if I want help, alright?”

She grins. “Sweet.”

Hank muffles a groan. Jesus, he’s going to end up with two chipper assholes harassing him at this rate.

(He’s going to end up talking to her soon, he knows. For his own sanity). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The first chapter of the game because FUCK, SO GREAT. I WAS SOLD FROM THE START. SWEET/BADASS CONNOR).
> 
> So... you got a little bit of Connor... sort of?
> 
> I promise he'll be the next chapter! I think I will return to my other fics for a few nights-- I just wrote like 5k of Becoming Human in a day.
> 
> As always, comments are so helpful and lovely! And thank you to everyone who has given kudos/commented. This fandom is so wonderfully responsive and sweet! <3 <3 <3 aahhhh I love y'all!


	3. 11.06.2038  10:23 am;   4203 North Corktown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me this boy does not sniff things.  
> You can't. 
> 
> ***Warnings for Todd Williams. Child/Android abuse. Drug use/Alcohol mention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting sick again, I swear. I'm pissed as hell.
> 
>  ~~This chapter is not edited. Hopefully, it will be soon. I'll edit when I no longer feel like throwing up. :/ Send Sumo kisses please~~ Edited now! If you see anything, don't be afraid to point it out to me! I do not have a beta so any mistakes are mine and I totally missed them :/

 

“What a lovely part of town,” Lieutenant Anderson mutters under his breath. Not quiet enough to prevent Connor from listening. The common level of volume humans use around androids when not paying immediate attention to them.

> TONE: Negative  
> CONFLICTING WORDS: “lovely”

.

.

.

> SARCASM?

Connor scans the houses as they drive past. PULLING PUBLIC RECORDS… These properties are all inexpensive. Unlike CyberLife buildings made of expensive materials that are always smooth and spotless, these houses are made of wood, plaster, and brick and appear unkempt. A state of disrepair lowers the resale value. Why would the residents allow poor functioning of their houses?

“Perfect neighborhood for another homicide. I swear I’m called out here every week,” Anderson continues.

> CONFLICTING WORDS: “perfect” “homicide”

> ”I swear” = emphasis

> ”out here every week” + “another homicide” + TONE: Negative = Frustration/Annoyance

.

.

.

> SARCASM IDENTIFIED.

Ah. Hank Anderson does not like this area because it has a lot of crime. Connor references the yearly calls and their locations. Yes, this area is within the designated “high crime” area of Detroit. Certainly that was known when the location of the call was given?

It is possible Anderson is frustrated with the area as a whole. Progress is difficult to evaluate when new problems arise. Humans are easily angered by repeated problems— although the cause of these calls is usually unrelated. Different perpetrator, same crime.

Reciting Anderson's achievements and statistics related to this area would likely be interpreted as ‘cold’ and ‘invasive’. Humans do not like to be scanned. Connor does not announce when he does them. It is advantageous for him to do them. He needs to understand his environment at all times.

One of the lieutenant’s hands is on the wheel as he winds through the streets. Proper accident prevention requires two hands on the wheel at all times and no alcohol in the driver’s system. Connor does not say so.

PROTOCOL_0494 “Lt. Anderson” was self-designated to help the investigation into deviants. If Connor is expected to work with a human partner, he needs to remain aware of the lieutenant’s attitude towards him. Preliminary contact with Anderson gave Connor enough data to process. The Lieutenant would not take well to direction from an android. He is within reasonable safety parameters with a blood alcohol content of 0.05. It is above the legal limit, but Connor monitored for delayed reflexes and identified a non-dangerous decrease in reaction time.

This would have been avoided if Anderson had a self-driving car. Evidence points to the lieutenant’s fondness for “old-fashioned things”: paper notes instead of digital reminders, music disks instead of digital files, an older generation smartphone in his pocket. His living arrangement probably lacks many standard high-tech amenities. He certainly does not own an android.

Connor is not “old-fashioned”. His unit is currently the most advanced model in the public eye.

The address of the house is not needed once they get on the right street. Police cars and the small mob of bystanders outside is enough of an indication. Anderson arrived 4.39 minutes earlier than an autonomous car would have. He speeds an average of 7 mph over the speed limit in non-residential areas.

Anderson stuffs a few pairs of nitrile gloves into his jacket pocket before he turns off the car. The engine’s rumbling stops, allowing the prying questions and talking of the crowd to fill the quiet. It is 10:28 on a weekday.

The journalists are working, but not the homeowners. Conner scans all the faces not turned away from him to gather their names and appearance in short-term memory. Most have residential addresses on the street. He has a list built if the lieutenant needs to interrogate eyewitnesses, or if the criminal came back to the location to appreciate their work. Unlikely, but Connor has the room to store extraneous information.

Anderson waits on the sidewalk for Connor. Progress. He has learned ordering Connor to sit in the car is not productive. As soon as Connor shuts the door behind him, Anderson locks it with a beep. Physical keys must be prone to be lost. Or stolen. That is not efficient.

“Come on, boy wonder. We’ve a crime scene to taste.”

> **AUDIO_INPUT** : “crime scene to taste”  
> WORD: “taste” = to put in one’s mouth  
> MEANING: “Anderson, Hank” and SELF should put evidence in their mouths.

 **WARNING** : HUMANS SHOULD NOT CONSUME EVIDENCE. HIGH PROBABILITY OF ILLNESS AND EVIDENCE TAMPERING.

Connor narrows his eyes to convey displeasure.

“Lieutenant, it is not advised to come into contact with evidence.” He begins, ready to explain the hazards of contamination. Humans are prone to catching diseases. Connor is specifically designed to—

“Jesus, I was kidding.” Anderson glances skyward with a sigh. Connor glances up, too. Nothing is there. His scan results are negative.

> **REMINDER** : DO NOT ANNOY “Anderson, Hank”. PROTOCOL_0494 “Lt. Anderson” WILL FAIL WITH REPEATED MISTAKES.

Cautious, Connor tags the statement as “HUMOR” and closes his mouth. He follows the lieutenant as they dodge through the crowd and pass through the glittering police tape hologram. This time the PC200 on duty doesn’t try to stop him. Connor should have been in the system the first time. Humans. It is not ideal to expect them to remember everything, even if CyberLife gives them ample instruction.

“Ben.”

Anderson greets Officer Collins, Ben with a nod. A scan confirms Anderson’s friendliness. A small smile, positive tone. No hint of bad mood that carried over from Connor’s misunderstanding of his joke. Humans’ ease at misplacing emotions makes it difficult to interact with them.

“Afternoon, Hank.” Officer Collins gestures to the cracked door of the house. Talking outside would give the reporters information. They are already trying to attract Connor’s attention. He hears his model number, discussion about his usefulness and prevalence in the investigation. The RK series are private experiments— Connor only knows of his model specifically. While RK800 implies a later generation, he has been given no information on previous androids to him. All may still be in testing or have already fulfilled their exploratory function to render them unnecessary.

> **SECONDARY_AUDIO_INPUT** : “God, look at it. The RK800 looks so real!”  
> **SECONDARY_AUDIO_INPUT** : “Damn CyberLife only said it was there to “help investigators”. What does that mean?”  
> **SECONDARY_AUDIO_INPUT** : “Who fuckin’ knows. Do you think DPD would let us see it in action?”

Connor cuts the command to monitor the crowd when he reaches the door. Officer Collins holds open the door for Anderson, then continues to wait for Connor to enter before him.

> **MANUAL INPUT** : “Collins, Ben” held door = polite gesture.

“I think we’ve got another one, Hank,” Collins says as soon as they are in the house. Property belonging to Williams, Todd. It is run down. No evidence of maintenance or care put into the exterior appearance of this house. Worse than the average on the street by 52%. It is a large house for a male human to live in alone. Inside, it is cleaner. Old and worn, but recently cleaned.

“A homicide? I know.” Anderson says in the same tone Connor misunderstood. He turns to watch Collins’ expression.

A corner of Collins’ mouth twitches. “That, too. I meant a deviant.”

Deviancy is not… unknown to the public, but cases are considered a statistical impossibility. 0.001% of all androids have been reported as having malfunctions relating to obeying commands. CyberLife resets those showing ‘symptoms’ of deviancy to wipe the problem. Most owners are not aware their androids have a more serious problem outside an odd malfunction.

A true deviant is rare. Of the ≈1200 reported cases of androids not obeying, very few show a sustained pattern of deviancy. Nothing a reset couldn’t fix— although CyberLife tries to find the corrupted code first. Deviants that break all protocols and code to commit crimes are a serious problem. Cases of criminal deviants have increased 250% in three months. So far the public is unaware of the growing trend.

“Great. Was this one stabbed an inhuman amount of times, too?”

> “Great” = Good.  
> CONVERSATION_TOPIC: Homicide.

The lieutenant is prone to not saying what he means. Connor has to take an extra few moments to process his words and the relation to his tone and expression. He is going to have to make his own database on Lieutenant Anderson to cross-reference behavior.

> **NOTE** : Anderson behavior database. *COMPLETE DURING NEXT STASIS.

“No. Williams was shot. His androids are missing.”

The small table near the door has overdue bills on it. Connor shifts them around to read the totals. Williams was using multiple credit cards to pay the old ones off. Banks were refusing loans. He must have been borrowing at a local level to keep himself afloat.

The house is his— but why have androids? The cheapest models would be an unnecessary financial burden. Two would be unreasonable.

The lieutenant grimaces. “Fucking hell, another deviant running around with a gun?”

Armed deviants are an unacceptable threat to the public. Apprehending the deviant is the top priority.

They glance over the overturned kitchen table and chairs. The humans wave away the flies buzzing around. A meal must have spilled. The forensic team is setting up— this time, the call came in while the lieutenant was still at the station so it was only a matter of driving here. It is easier to get Anderson to a crime scene when he is already at work.

“We haven’t found the murder weapon yet in the house. Todd Williams was unemployed, divorced. Lived alone in his house with no other humans. Neighbors confirmed he had two androids. One of the older generations of housekeeper models and a child android.” Collins reads the case notes from his tablet. He must do the preliminary investigation work while Anderson is en route.

Connor needs to ask for local access to DPD records. He has access to national databases, but lower level access will allow him to work with other homicide detectives. Anderson has a relatively low percentage of reliability for someone designated as a police lieutenant.

“It was financially irresponsible to have two androids. Williams couldn’t pay his bills on time,” Connor says. There are more bills stuffed in the bookshelf in the living room. Drug paraphernalia lies on the floor. Dropped there after the floor was cleaned. Anderson pauses to take a deep breath.

“Red ice.” His voice is a growl. Angry.

Connor breathes in, too. PROCESSING DATA…

> **OLFACTORY_SENSORS** : ILLEGAL DRUG “Red Ice”. Prevalent smell.

Stepping close to the living room couch, Connor leans down to sniff it. Only heavy use would result in the smell being absorbed into the fabric of the furniture. Williams was a frequent user. Drug addiction is an expensive crime. Williams must not have been able to make good decisions. Red Ice wouldn’t have helped.

Anderson shows the barest signs of amusement when Connor straightens up from sniffing the chair next to the couch. His eyes are creased at the corners, but he breaks eye contact to listen to Collins continue the brief.

Unsure if Anderson wanted to say something, Connor adjusts his tie and smooths it down.

Collins nods. “Williams has multiple charges of narcotic possession, drug trafficking, and battery to name a few. The typical rap of a druggie. He was initially a taxi driver but then had to jump to a different job. Unfortunately, he kept picking the kind of job androids took over and ended up unemployed for eighteen months. That’s when he started dealing Red Ice. He must have started using, too.”

“Hmm.” Anderson pulls on a pair of gloves to nudge the trash can. Aluminum cans rattle together. “Drank, too.”

“Neighbors reported hearing a loud sound last night, but none of them called it in until a kid spotted the back door wide open. The front door was locked, the back door wasn’t. He was shot upstairs in the child’s room. One bullet wound to the heart. There was a struggle in the child’s room. Do you want to look upstairs, or dig around here first?”

“Let’s look around here. Forensic can deal with the body.” Anderson turns to take in the downstairs. The kitchen is small, beat up. There are three doors: laundry, bathroom, and pantry. These areas appear to not have been a scene of the crime— until Connor scans for Thirium-310.

“Lieutenant.”

“What?” Non-hostile tone: curious?

“There is significant Thirium on most surfaces in the kitchen.” Connor picks his way across the floor, lost in the vision mode to scan for Thirium. Blue splatters the floor, the counter edges. Old, old faded drops are a faint gleam in the scan. In order to build a reconstruction, he is going to have to sort the data into dates and situations. This is not a one-time incident.

“How old?”

GATHERING DATA…

.

.

.

 **WARNING** : 613 UNIQUE DATA POINTS. CONTINUE GATHERING DATA?

“Older than two weeks, minimum. I can identify… multiple dates of possible altercations. Officer Collins, what was the model of the androids? This is too old to test.” Connor asks, remembering to look up at the officer at the last moment. Eye contact is preferred in conversation. It is a distracting, necessary integration behavior.

Collins glances down at his tablet. “An AX400, and a YK500. The child was bought first, about a two years ago. The AX400 was purchased a little less than a year ago.” That is thirty-two months after the housekeeper model’s premiere. The KY500 was new when it was purchased. Williams has a preference for the child android.

Most of the thirium spots are nothing more than a shadow of information. Someone cleaned up the evidence with bleach. It would have ruined the identification tags in the blue blood over repeated cleanings. There is not much for him to test. Connor’s sensors could determine it would be thirium, but even the sensitive technology wouldn’t be able to separate the data.

> **MANUAL INPUT** : PROCESS NEWEST THIRIUM-310 FIRST.

Connor tilts his head, trying to sort the influx of data points. Stains over a month old are impossible to separate. Based on decay, he can guess a majority of the splatters are less than a year old, older than a month. When he turns to the sink—

He reaches out to touch the dent in the counter’s edge. Thirium coated the cabinets under it. That was a dangerous amount of fluid loss. It soaked the counter and the inside of the sink. The stainless steel sink held onto the signs because it was scratched up and stripped of its protective coat from harsh chemical misuse.

“What are you staring at?” Anderson. Impatient.

Connor blinks, the scan disappearing. It is hard to sort everything and remember his human coworkers cannot see the same evidence. Why hasn’t the Detroit Police Department provided police officers with the technology to scan for Thirium?

“My apologies, lieutenant. I can send you and Officer Collins photos from my scans if that would be helpful?” He offers, trying to bridge the technology gap.

Anderson rolls his eyes. “I’d like to not be left in the dark.”

SCANNING...

COMPILING IMAGES INTO 360-VR

.

.

.

It takes seconds to stitch the images into a VR compatible file, then Connor packages it to be a universal file type. He sends one copy to Collins’ tablet, one to Anderson’s phone. The tablet has better screen resolution and a large display, but the lieutenant is not carrying his police-issued field tablet.

“Huh.” Collins shows Anderson the glowing spots of blue as he turns and points his tablet at the sink. They peer at the large ‘puddle’ of Thirium. Connor tagged that one as ‘serious damage/possible shutdown’. There should be a history of repairs and Thirium refills in Williams’ CyberLife customer history.

“Jesus. Williams must have roughed up his androids pretty good.” Anderson uses his phone to scan the floor. “Are these from both androids?”

Connor stops sorting through his 158 possible reconstructions. Manual review is necessary. He has to check on a case-by-case to determine if his prediction software is accurate. There is enough data to cause confusion and overlapping theories.

“I am not sure—”

He breaks off to add the YK500 into the reconstruction parameters—

 **PARAMETER_CONFIRMATION** : AX400 _AND_ YK500?

>YES. CONTINUE.

.

.

.

 **WARNING** : 241 RECONSTRUCTIONS. CONTINUE?

“There are two hundred and one possible reconstructions for the kitchen—”

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : ASSIGN 001-241 ACCURACY PERCENTAGE…

.

.

.  
COMPLETE.

  
> **MANUAL_INPUT** : SORT 001-241 BY DECREASING PERCENTAGE.  
> **MANUAL_INPUT** : RUN TOP 50 IN AUX_PROCESS—

“Alright, don’t run them. You don’t need to run something not related to the homicide.” Anderson cuts him off. Connor’s eyes open— oh. Both police officers stare at his LED with concern. It flashes yellow as he was sorting the evidence to better process it. They relax when Connor abandons the command. His LED returns to a stable blue.

“History of abuse has been determined. That can be enough to push an android to deviancy.” Anderson pockets his phone. “Only process the recent evidence, okay? We can do a full house scan later if necessary.”

Is that concern? Connor is capable of processing that data. Not instantaneously, but he can reroute his usual channels to deal with an increased need to generate scenarios— does the lieutenant not think him capable?

Collins leads them to the kitchen table. Forensics added the yellow markers to the scene for the crime scene photographs. Connor identifies seven pairs of footsteps upstairs. He should check the body next. There is no recent Thirium here. Only shattered dishes, scattered silverware, and the rotting remains of a meal. Spaghetti: statistically, dinner. Testing the meal would confirm if the AX400 cooked the meal as one of the multiple variations it can produce.

“Two bowls?” Collins steps around the overturned kitchen chair. “The YK500 can’t eat, can it?”

The table and chairs are wooden, scratched from misuse. Probability of being thrown around before: 67%. Red Ice alters mood, causing paranoia and aggression. Probability of increasing abusive behavior: 84%. Probability Todd Williams hit the AX400, but not the YK500: 12%.

“No, sir.” Connor agrees. “More expensive models can properly process and store food to allow consumption of perishable organics—”

“Got it.” Anderson interrupts. Again. “So Williams bought a kid android to replace the kid his wife ran off with. I bet she was running from his temper. The YK500 was treated more as family than the housekeeper android. Something happened at dinner to set him off… and he ended upstairs dead.”

“Resulting in the deviancy of both androids,” Connor adds.

“Right.”

Connor finds Thirium in the kitchen-living room area, too. 33% less, by estimate. But the floor type here is more likely to absorb Thirium and leave minimal traces. Without prompting, he sends another file to Anderson and Collins.

“There is no recent Thirium in the kitchen.”

PROCESSING DATA…

RECONSTRUCTING…

Connor has one high-probability reconstruction to render. He uses the imperceptible discoloring from the furniture legs in order to rebuild the scene. Williams sat down to eat with the YK500. The AX400 served dinner. Either one of the androids set off Williams or his temper snapped on its own. He flipped the table, knocked over his chair. The YK500 knocked over its chair, too.

“Finished here?” Anderson asks. Connor looks up. It is possible the exact reconstruction of the kitchen fight was unnecessary.

“I would like to see the body now, lieutenant.” Connor finished his preliminary scan of the first floor.

This makes Collins smile for some reason. He shares a look with Anderson as Connor takes a questioning step towards the stairs. A jerk of Anderson's head gives him permission to continue investigating.

GATHERING DATA…

THIRIUM DROPS ON THE STAIRS. SMALL DROPLETS, LARGE ANGLE OF IMPACT. LARGE GAP. RUNNING.

Officer Miller is going down the narrow, creaky stairs when the lieutenant waves Connor up first.

“Ben, Hank, and Connor.” He greets them in turn, smiling. Connor blinks, backing down the first step to let Miller pass. If he didn't, he would have made the police officer squeeze past him.

“Good afternoon, Officer Miller,” Connor replies, identifying the path of droplets leading to the back door. Now he can separate the small data points from the overloaded visuals.

“Afternoon, Chris.”

Connor will do another sweep of the downstairs after inspecting the scene of the crime.

“Anything interesting up there, Chris?” Anderson asks, leaning against the stair railing with his arms crossed over his chest. Casual.

“Not really. Still no sign of the gun. We might have an armed deviant on the loose.”

>TONE: Serious. Concerned.

“Fowler’s gonna lose his shit— ah, fucking hell— this again?!” Anderson swears as soon as Connor licks his fingertips.

He pauses.

“Let him do his job, man.” Chris cuts in with a grin. “I think it's great.” Connor detects no sarcasm or mocking tone.

“God, whatever.” Anderson rolls his eyes but turns half a step away. Collins and Miller watch as Connor reactivates the Thirium with his wet fingertips before bringing the sample back to his mouth.

COLLECTING DATA… PROCESSING DATA…

 **IDENTIFIED** : MODEL AX400— Serial #579 102 694. DESIGNATED “Kara”.

“The AX400 was injured, ran out the back door from upstairs.”

“Great. Go upstairs and look at the body, please.” Anderson's words would be interpreted as lacking patience, but his tone doesn't match. Resigned?

“I'll leave you all to it. I'm going to question the neighbors to see if they know anything helpful,” Miller says, giving Anderson a clap on the shoulder.

“Officer Miller, would you ask them about Todd Williams’ abusive behavior? If they noticed shouting, arguing, damaged androids, et cetera. Please?” Connor remembers to tack on his manners to his request. He remembered full eye contact before he started talking.

“Sure thing, Connor. I let you know.” Miller tosses over his shoulder before leaving. The brief moment the door is open allows the chatter of the crowd to billow in.

>MANUAL_INPPUT: Officer “Miller, Chris” responds well to requests made by SELF.

Good.

Connor leads them up the stairs, lingering on the smudged Thirium and human blood on the top of the railing. It is a rough outline of the AX400’s hand.

Anderson points to the smear of rust on the wood for Collins. Connor did not have the time yet to mention it, but the lieutenant is a respected detective. He is capable of processing the crime scene himself. With Connor’s presence, Anderson is a supervisor and safety net. Human creativity has been well-mimicked by CyberLife. Not yet copied.

The child android’s room is a mess. The forensic team chokes the room, white sterile body suits blocking much of the contents from view. Three more is too many in one small space. Connor identifies spots in the room to give him the best views of the area.

First, scan Todd Williams’ body.

“Don't get in the way!” A man snaps at Connor when he tries to edge past. He was careful not to jostle or brush against anyone. His blue armband and LED are the reason for this hostility.

 **WARNING** : CONFLICTING ORDERS.

“Let it look at the body,” Anderson sighs before Connor can explain the benefits of allowing him to examine Williams. “That's it's job.”

The forensic scientist stares at the lieutenant before muttering a curse under his breath. It is lost in the sterile suit, but Connor hears it. Anderson would have engaged if he heard. The lieutenant is the type to take any challenge head-on.

> **AUDITORY_INPUT** : _“Fucking androids.”_

Connor kneels next to him. If there was more room, he could placate the forensic team by saying out of his way and obey his orders. But he has to prioritize because he cannot do both.

“Don't _touch_ anything.” A hard nudge follows the command. Connor tenses so he won't lose balance. Disturbing Williams’ body in any way would be damaging to his ability to continue the investigation. That would allow for a negative response.

Connor looks to Anderson for confirmation.

“It most certainly will.” The lieutenant jumps in. Tone hard. “It is going to do whatever it needs and you're going to let it. This android is uniquely qualified to be here.”

“Fucking hell.” The forensic scientist abandons the body. Frustrated.

> ACCEPTABLE OUTCOME.

GATHERING DATA…

PROCESSING DATA…

.

.

.

Williams, Todd.  
**BORN** : 09.21.1995  
**HEIGHT** : 6’0”  
**WEIGHT** : 198 lbs  
**CRIMINAL RECORD** : ASSAULT, BATTERY, DRUG DEALING, DRUG POSSESSION, DRUG CONSUMPTION, INTOXICATION IN PUBLIC. * INCREASING FREQUENCY OVER PAST 18 MONTHS. ** DOMESTIC COMPLAINTS FROM NEIGHBORS. INCREASED FREQUENCY OF CALLS FROM NEIGHBORS.

TIME OF DEATH?

  
> Calculate predicted algor mortis, rigor mortis, and livor mortis …  
> Factor in weight, fat content, ambient temperature, body temperature…

GATHERING DATA…

PROCESSING DATA…

CALCULATING…

 **TIME OF DEATH** : ~12 hrs ago.  
**CAUSE OF DEATH** : gunshot to aorta. Through.

>INSPECT HANDS

Connor leans down. He doesn't want to move the body until the coroner arrives. While he needs to see Williams’ front to gather evidence, it is not time sensitive. Anderson isn't drunk enough to be impatient.

The low temperature in the house reduced the progression of rigor mortis. The joints are not yet locked up because of the cold. The open back door overwhelmed the heating units in Williams’ house. It is fifty degrees Fahrenheit inside. Anderson has not removed his coat.

> THIRIUM DETECTED.

The hands are swollen from decomposition, hiding the damage to Williams’ knuckles. He punched the AX400 repeatedly, with enough force to fracture bone. That should have caused pain.

Most androids are not easily destroyed. Certain areas of the unit can be dented or jostled by the force in an average human punch: face, neck, hands. The AX400 is of standard durability. An unarmed human male of Williams’ weight and strength could have done minor damage. While hurting himself. If he was intoxicated, his brain may not have been processing pain.

> CHECK FOR DEFENSIVE WOUNDS

Connor rotates Williams’ right arm at the shoulder, then bends his arm. Anderson moves to stand at Connor’s elbow. Observing.

No scratches. No deep wounds or marks. Discolored rings around his wrist might have been the start of a bruise. It was inflicted shortly before death when blood couldn't form a bruise with a stagnant heart. No gunpowder residue.

His left hand is in a similar state. He was comfortable punching with either hand. The pattern of bruising on William’s wrists is consistent with an amateur attempt at breaking a chokehold. The dimensions of the bruise match an AX400’s hand.

“Find anything?”

“Yes, lieutenant. Williams has Thirium on his hands from punching the AX400. It caused fractures in various metacarpals in each hand. The bruising around his wrists suggests he grabbed the AX400 by the throat, facing it. I see no other defensive wounds from this angle.”

Connor checks Anderson's expression. He agrees with the assessment. A glance towards Collins locates him at the doorway, talking with the forensic team. Gathering evidence, clearing out the room so they can work. He must do more administrative/organization work. Which would be more appropriate for a police lieutenant…

“He was the aggressor. So he attacked the android. Why?” Anderson's tone suggests he knows.

>THIS IS A TEST.

Like the report at the Ortiz house.

The location is important. The fight started in the kitchen when blood hadn't been spilled yet. Then there was a delay before relocating to the YK500’s room. She was family status to Williams. Reasoning: decorated room, belongings, things a human child would be expected to have.

“It had to involve the child android.”

Anderson nods.

The crushed and scattered boxes and blankets in the corner of the room were important to the YK500. Drawings and toys are covered by an old blanket. Broken glass from crushed string lights was sprinkled over the mess.

RECONSTRUCTING….

It was a structure of some kind before being knocked over by the fight. Handmade. Not exact, uneven. Made of common bedroom items: sheets, storage shelves, toys. The YK500 would have been upset.

Connor turns his head to scan the other side of the room. Thirium drips across the carpet, increasing closer to the window and bed. Later in the fight, then. On the floor lies a belt, curled like a dark snake.

SCANNING…

Thirium identified. Old stains on both the buckle and the strap. It was not used in the fight. Then what did Williams use it for?

Connor gets up to test it. Anderson watches, hands in his pockets and mouth a tight line. Serious.

> THIRIUM IDENTIFIED: YK500 #479 142 364 “Alice”

RECONSTRUCTING…

“Williams was hitting the YK500 with his belt. There was a fight between him and the AX400 in the room. He dropped the belt because…” Connor pauses to run more extrapolations. The AX400 was armed before it walked into the room.

“It threatened Williams with a gun but did not shoot. It probably hesitated, giving Williams an opening to attack. They fought. He either knocked the AX400 to the floor or it was reaching for the gun. It shot him and then they fled.”

“That's what I was thinking.” Anderson eyes the body on the floor. “He was hyped up on Red Ice and snapped at dinner. The kid probably didn't do anything wrong— those kinds of monsters will take any reason to explode.”

Connor analyzes his tone and expression. Anderson’s expression matches suppressed anger with a high percentage.

“Do you think he deserved to die, lieutenant?”

Anderson shows a hint of teeth in a smile. Like Connor said something humorous, but he didn't. It twists into a scowl. Anderson’s shoe scuffs the floor. Deciding on a reply, if Connor gets one at all.

Connor waits, looking at him. Emulating behavior to ‘prompt’ and ‘coax’ an answer from Anderson. It may be beneficial to Connor’s understanding of his assigned partner. There is something personal in this case resonating with Anderson.

“I think very few people deserve to die for their crimes,” he says, eventually. “But some crimes can result in death— people like him shouldn't be surprised when life turns around and bites them.”

Connor doesn't understand.

“It was an android. He was hitting a machine.”

A spark of anger flares, dying quickly as the lieutenant studies Connor. Whatever he was looking for, Anderson doesn't find it in Connor.

“Williams bought an android to replace his daughter. He hit her— beat her. Damaged a machine or whatever the fuck you want to call it— because there were no consequences to it. His wife and daughter left him and he didn't change.”

> TONE: Angry.  
> REASON UNKNOWN.

Connor doesn't understand.

“Androids don't feel pain, lieutenant.” He reminds Anderson. Humans empathize too easily. It is why he is expecting to make Anderson ‘warm up’ to him. Connor was designed for optimal social integration.

“He did receive ‘consequences’, to use your words,” Connor adds when Anderson starts to turn away. He does not want the lieutenant to feel negatively towards him. He needs Anderson to have positive associations with this unit.

The lieutenant expressed another sign of not-humor. A short, harsh laugh.

“Jesus. Expecting a damn machine to understand,” he says under his breath. Unaware Connor can hear him. For the most part, humans are willfully ignorant of an android’s capabilities. Most androids are not created to fulfill extremes. Only domestic work, low-skilled jobs. Many, however, have enhanced senses and strength to perform better tasks.

Connor is pleased Anderson has regained his reasoning.

“Hm…” Something has occurred to the lieutenant. He runs his fingers over the bookshelf filled with children's books. Connor watches him. Catalogs the titles and his behavior. Anderson is preoccupied. Thinking.

Connor watches him turn in a circle to look around the room. Humans sometimes need to process data multiple times to understand it. Or, a new pattern has emerged through rumination.

“AX400s… do they take care of children?”

Anderson is not at all familiar with androids. This is made more clear with every hour Connor spends at his side. It does not help Connor is not a standard model. The little Anderson knows about androids— unwavering obedience, for example— does not necessarily apply to Connor in all situations.

“It is one of their advertised functions,” Connor confirms. “General housekeeping duties and nannying are the main uses of an AX400— oh.”

> IDENTIFIED CAUSE FOR DEVIANCY.

“You think the AX400 became deviant because of the YK500.”

It is possible. The AX400 was likely fulfilling the role of caregiver. A child android is designed to act like a human child, needing adult figures in its life and someone to take care of it. Williams’ lack of parenting skills would have triggered protocols in the AX400, causing it to have a bigger role than a housekeeper. Deviancy pushed that further into behavior humans would recognize as ‘nurturing’ and ‘protecting’. Motherly instincts amplified from the CyberLife-base settings.

Anderson shrugs. “You got any better theories?”

EVALUATING POSSIBILITY…

HIGH PROBABILITY.

“That aligns with the evidence.”

“Great,” Anderson sighs. “Still no leads on the gun-wielding psycho-machine.”

There is still much of the house to analyze. But it is unlikely the androids are here. The AX400 believes it needs to protect the child android. It would do whatever it needs to keep the YK500 safe. Leaving the crime scene would have been the first priority.

“It would be highly unlikely the AX400 would cause any further injury or death if the YK500 is not in danger.”

The lieutenant’s mouth twitches. “So you're saying if we chase after them we'll get shot?”

EVALUATING…

“Yes.”

This time Anderson's laugh is genuine.

“It would be impressive if a domestic model was capable of hitting a moving target with accuracy.” Connor contextualizes the danger. “My unit is resilient. One gunshot shouldn't prevent my apprehension of the AX400.”

“Oh, you're bulletproof?” Anderson expressed interest or appreciation.

“No. Durable. A bullet would have to hit a few specific areas to cause immediate, incapacitating damage.”

“Shame. I was gonna have you stand in front of me.” Anderson inspects the body himself, gloves hands and eyes skimming for missed data. Connor watches, cataloging the way a human detective looks for evidence. There are functions Connor can do that are impossible for humans, but they make up for it with technology and gut-instinct.

“That is standing protocol, lieutenant.”

Protecting human life from being collateral ranks above protecting this unit. Connor cannot continue an investigation if the main investigators are injured or killed.

CORRECTION: if he was allowed to work independently, Connor would not need the lieutenant. Efficiency would be increased by 31% if there were no humans involved in the investigation. However, Connor’s main directive is to work with the DPD to facilitate the integration of highly specialized models like himself.

“You two done with this room?” Collins appears, having left a few minutes ago to coordinate the crime scene personnel. A man stands past him in the hall.

“Coroner's here.”

Connor jumps to his feet. “I have refrained from moving the body, but I would like to see William's anterior side for a comprehensive evaluation.”

The coroner is a man near retirement age: Zane K. Andrulonis, 63 years old, unmarried. No criminal record. Worked with DPD for 19 years.

He raises an eyebrow and looks from Connor to Anderson to Collins. Incredulous. Shocked, statistically, from Connor’s advanced model. Humans are aware of his high ‘realism’. It makes 37% of all people Connor interacts with uncomfortable.

“Whatever the android wants.” The coroner agrees with a shrug, reading the cues from Anderson: a shrug and a nod. He wheels in a stretcher, a black body bag sitting on top. Unrolled, ready to be used. Preserving Williams’ body is necessary for court-desired evidence. Technology has advanced quickly in many fields, including forensic science.

Collins is smiling again.

Before the coroner moves the body, Connor ensures he has a good scan locked into memory. It is doubtful something was overlooked— between Anderson, the forensic team, and himself— but redundancy is never detrimental to an investigation. He gives the coroner space to not give the impression he is trying to rush anyone.

“Help me turn him over?” The coroner asks Connor. He is at Williams' shoulder, gloved hands ready to roll him onto his back. Having another person to move Williams would be more efficient.

“Yes, sir.”

The coroner grunts, taking care guide Williams’ legs as Connor handles the brunt of the weight. There are no other wounds to accidentally put his hands on. Dark red stained the floor and shirt around the gunshot wound. Dried blood. Body temperature could be misleading, but the time of death should be within eleven to twelve hours.

TIME OF DEATH ESTIMATE: 88 % ACCURATE.

It is within the initial time frame Connor gave to Anderson. There is no need to verbally update him.

Williams’ face is dark with splotches of livor mortis. Consistent with lying face down. He was not moved. Human blood is only located here, where Williams was shot. His death would have constituted as a crime of passion if the criminal was human.

“Not a single defensive wound,” Anderson confirms, looking up and down the body. Connor nods in agreement. The trajectory of the bullet suggests no other infliction. Williams was shot point blank in the chest. The bullet buried in the ceiling matches. He was on top of the AX400. Wrestling for the gun.

The singed speckles of gunpowder around the rotting wound are clear evidence of a close shot. Between the fighting, the AX400 grabbed the gun as Williams was on top of it. Killed him. Fled with the YK500. Still armed, but not an immediate threat.

“There is a low chance the AX400 becomes an active shooter.” Connor considers the possibility. PROBABILITY: 27%. Unless more ammunition was found, the ability to do a lot of damage is improbable. More likely: the AX400 becomes an armed fugitive. Pursuit is the course of action to cause maximum stress to the two androids.

Connor leans down to sniff Williams’ mouth. TRACES OF ALCOHOL AND RED ICE DETECTED. SAMPLE RECOMMENDED. He needs to determine if Williams was under the influence during the altercation. It would have made him irrational and unstable. His jaw is stiff. The coroner does not react as Connor tests his coagulated saliva.

 _“No—_ I am _not_ having this nonsense again.”

This time Anderson's outburst is after Connor tested William's mouth for Red Ice. Connor lowers his fingers from his mouth.

“My systems identified Red Ice and alcohol, lieutenant,” Connor explains. Will he have to do this every time he takes a sample for immediate testing? Objectively, he can understand humans not wanting to ‘ingest’ substances they deem non-edible. ‘Disgust’ as a reaction was adapted to discourage the possibility of contracting disease. Androids lack such inhibitions.

“Fantastic. Come here.” Anderson beckons him with his arm. Connor hesitates, unsure what he's being asked to do. He thinks he correctly identified the sarcastic intention of ‘fantastic’.

“Come _here,”_ Anderson repeats. He isn't angry. Exasperated?

Connor remains pliant when the lieutenant grabs his upper arm. The hold on him is firm as Anderson guides him out the room and into the bathroom. It is disorganized and old like the rest of the house. A few items on the edge of the sink belong to Williams. A bright toothbrush must have been the YK500’s.

“Wash your hands.” Anderson turns on the hot water. “I assume you know how to do that.”

Wanting to remain obedient, Connor sticks his hands under the faucet. Confused. He scans the area for evidence to be thorough. Nothing enlightening. Evidence of drug use and a neglectful lifestyle.

“I don't—”

“You are not running your dirty fingers all over this crime scene, kid. Who knows what disease you just picked up from doing that,” Anderson grumbles. “Here, soap.”

Connor takes his hands out of the water to allow soap to be piled in his palms. It is more than the recommended amount of soap needed. There is no detrimental effect to using too much soap, however. This is for the lieutenant.

“I do not catch diseases,” Connor says 15% slower than his usual talking speed. Anderson catches it.

“I know _you_ don’t,” he huffs. “But you're working around people who can— so you are going to wash your hands and your mouth after you test something gross.”

Connor scrubs his hands together. Water soaks into the edges of his CyberLife jacket and white dress shirt. The temperature is warm: 95°F.  Although there is a low probability of incubating pathogens on non-organic surfaces, Connor knows he shouldn't risk spreading anything.

Anderson opens the medicine cabinet to find illegal substances and mouthwash. He rips the plastic seal on a new bottle—

“Lieutenant, I am afraid that would be damaging to my sensors.” Connor shifts his weight to his left leg, away from Anderson in case he has to be forceful. The tech in his mouth is delicate and expensive. CyberLife can make repairs for him— unnecessary ones would be wasteful.

“Wash your mouth out, at least.”

Pure deionized water would have been preferable, but one time won't cause a need for recalibration. Connor ducks his head and gets a mouthful of hard water.

ANALYZING DATA—

> CANCEL.

 **ORAL_IDENTIFICATION_SYSTEMS** : CANCEL?

> YES. CONFIRM CANCEL.

“Hank, is your android alright?” Collins’ voice places him nearby but out of sight.

“Yes, it's fine. I just wanted it to not be walking around with someone else's spit in its mouth and on its fingers.”

Collins chuckles. Connor glances up in the mirror to catch Anderson's eye roll.

Connor spits the water out and straightens up. It will take a few minutes for the sensors to filter out the background impurities. It is an acceptable violation of tertiary operating protocol if it pleases Anderson. The lieutenant guides Connor back into the hallway with a hand on his shoulder.

Collins leans against the wall, tablet in hand. “Williams’ ex-wife and his daughter are driving down to the station. They'll be here in about two hours.”

Anderson turns to Connor. “Anything else you need to look at? I want to go to lunch.”

CALCULATING…

FURTHER INVESTIGATION RECOMMENDED. SCAN ALL ROOMS.

Connor opens his mouth—

“You need me to supervise.” Anderson sighs, remembering his directive. “Alright, whiz kid. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you, lieutenant. I should only need ten minutes maximum.” Human irritation level increases when they are hungry. Connor needs to be thorough, but expeditious. Anderson already sees him as a hindrance. At least an annoyance. To be an obstacle is not ideal.

 **SECONDARY_AUDIO_INPUT:** “Christ, why does it need me around? I think it is capable of doing this without me, twice as fast.”

 **SECONDARY_AUDIO_INPUT** : “You want an Android to take your job?”

 **SECONDARY_AUDIO_INPUT** : “Sure, long as I get the pay.”

Collins chuckles in reply as Connor ducks into the first room past the stairs. Williams’ bedroom. Neat and recently cleaned. Not the human’s doing. The perfect angles of the collected bills are signatory of a cleaning model. GATHERING DATA…

Guitar: Past interest. Not recently used. Nice quality, decent price. It was bought before Williams lost his job. A hobby, likely. Abandoned.

Bed: recently made. Not recently washed. Big enough for two, but one side is more worn out. Williams’ preferred side. At eye level, there are small crystals of Red Ice under the far side of the comforter. Too small for humans to detect.

Night Table: similar evidence of Red Ice use. Crystals on the floor, too. Spots of alcohol poorly cleaned off cheap wood. The combination of a stimulant and depression points to self-medication. The drawer inside is full of evidence.

COLLECTING DATA…

“Lieutenant?”

Anderson steps further into the room. “What?”

“Williams did not have a gun license. His gun was acquired illegally.”

“Shocker.” Anderson has 0% surprise in his expression or tone. His expression did not change from the mild interest when Connor called his name.

Connor frowns. Certainly this is important.

“Williams possessed a firearm unlawfully.” Connor tries again.

“So you said. He’s dead, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”

.

.

.

“No…?”

Anderson opens his mouth to say something. His phone rings. A loud, default ringtone. Either the lieutenant does not care about his ringtone— backed up by his unprofessional appearance— or he does not know how to change it. Also a possibility. Anderson does not seem to be ‘up to date’ with technology.

“Anderson,” he answers, then grimaces. “Sure, we’ll take a look.”

Connor stops scanning for data as Anderson ends the call and slides the phone into his old jacket’s pocket.

 **WARNING** : 45% OF PROPERTY NOT SCANNED FOR EVIDENCE. CONTINUE INVESTIGATION.

“The androids have been spotted at a motel. Let’s go take a look.”

 

UPDATING OBJECTIVES.

.

.

.  
CATCH DEVIANTS.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I'm BLOWN AWAY by the response I've gotten from all you lovely people <3 <3 <3 Holy shit, I cannot express how much it means to me. My heart jumps in happiness whenever I get a comment. You are so kind to reward authors with your thoughts. I love to interact and share ideas, AND it helps me stay motivated and focused on writing more <3
> 
> This author is a sick kiddo with like... too many chronic illnesses and responsibilities. So... my writing schedule is sporadic but I do write some every day. The fanfic summary will have an update in [[ these brackets ]] if I want to keep you posted :)
> 
> I also write for other fandoms! I love Hank and Connor tho. We're getting some grumpy Hank next chapter, promise!!!!
> 
> Happy Pride Month from a closet-ed gay child <3


	4. Short-ass Lunch Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank “I don’t know shit about androids— is this normal?” Anderson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Todd Williams child/android abuse.

Why don’t these fucking things have off buttons?

Hank slams the door behind him, ears pricked to hear the android’s quieter exit. Silence. A glance over his shoulder confirms the android remains seated in his passenger seat, hands on its knees and eyes closed. Whatever. It doesn’t need a lunch break. It can stay in the cooling car while he enjoys two damn seconds away from it.

Stomping across the thin layer of snow and ice to Chicken Feed, Hank tries to hold down his frustration at his new pet robot. Ben isn’t being sympathetic at all. Bastard thinks the entire situation is hilarious. If Hank wasn’t the one saddled with a plastic asshole he could appreciate the irony of the universe.

He isn’t sure if God exists, but this is the biggest ‘fuck you’ a divine being could send. Partners with an android. Jesus Christ on a cracker. And a stubborn-ass android, too. Fucking prototype.

“I heard you ran into the suspects at the motel,” Ben says when Hank brings his food over. Eating outside today is manageable in a good coat. It beats eating in the car or sitting at the precinct where Fowler could pile more tasks onto his workload.

(Suspects, Ben said. Not ‘androids’. Deviant androids have them all fucked up. Giving them actual personality and real human characteristics are exactly what CyberLife wants to avoid. The superficial shit programmed in is for the consumers).  

Hank scoffs— the sound is almost a snarl of disgust. “Yeah. I had to drag robocop away from launching head first into about eight lanes of traffic after them.”

Ben winces. “That would have been a mess.”

The soda is cold going down his throat. Hot coffee is back at the break room if Hank needs to warm up. He has a case of beer in his back seat, but the android might be reporting to Fowler. Hank doesn’t need concrete evidence he drinks on the job. Deliberate ignorance is already pushing it.

“I had to yank it off the fence,” Hank grumbles into his burger.

It was so weird. He has a thing about touching androids. Unless he wanted to watch a multi-thousand or— god forbid—  a million dollar piece of plastic get crushed into tiny pieces by traffic, he had to grab it. ‘Connor’ was cool to the touch. Not hot like a person, but not like touching frozen plastic either.

Hank was going to snatch its tie and shirt collar if it tried to break his grip. Thank fuck it refrained from trying to disobey him. Again. It was a fucking miracle. They watched the deviant androids make it across by the fake skin of their fake teeth. The AX400 was swiped a few times. It recovered with inhuman speed and durability.

WIth every lane of traffic the deviants crossed, the android became more tense. Coiled, ready to lunge. Hank kept his hand on its shoulder, tightening his grip past the point a human would have complained about the pain. He tugged on its arm to guide it away from the fence when the androids were out of sight.

It was itching to go after it— Jesus, it was like those high-strung police dogs. Hank felt like a K9 handler when he helped the android load up into his car in case it decided to make a break for it. He knows it is faster and stronger than him by a significant amount, so he appreciated the work it didn’t make him do.

Ben cranes his neck to stare at the android. It is still sitting in the car, motionless. A perfect statue of uncanny human likeness. Is it breathing? Hank squints. No, it is not… but doesn’t it usually pretend to? Creepy asshole.

“So Connor did listen to you for once.” Ben teases, straight-faced. Hank would like to say Ben would be less chipper about the new police model. He’s not sure. Ben would be more civil, for certain. Fowler knew what he was doing assigning Hank to this case. An android is a punishing prod in a better direction.

“It didn’t want to.” Hank rolls his eyes. “Maybe it knew I’d finish the job if it got itself smashed up.”

“Uh huh.”

Ben doesn’t believe him. That is fair. Hank isn’t cruel. It is a robot trying to follow its programming. He doesn’t have to damage one to say he hates androids. Fowler— the fucking bastard— knows how he feels about ‘em. It is the last chance to keep him at work and breathing. Pairing up the old mentor with the squeaky-new rookie.

A perpetual rookie. Hank sighs.

He isn’t even enjoying his lunch, just going through the motions. Ben is usually mild, easy company. Today he’s trying to figure Hank out over this damn android. It’s not like an android is going to drive Hank to put a bullet in his brain any faster.

“You should talk to Lyn. She’s really into those things. I bet she could have some insight to keep you from locking it in the evidence locker out of sheer frustration,” Ben offers. “I know Connor’s a prototype, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Ben tries to be helpful. Hank looks at the android sitting in his car. Now it stares straight ahead at nothing. Fantastic.

“Pearson will explode from joy.” Hank was opposed to broaching the subject with her until he had to seriously consider tackling an android to keep it from running across a highway. It is already glued to his side. Android-destroying danger is going to fuck with the investigation.

Ben fails to hide a smile behind his coffee.

 

 

— — —

 

 

Todd Williams’ ex-wife is at the station when Hank tries to return to his desk. She must have just arrived. Fowler is seating the mother and daughter in one of the casual ‘office rooms’ the precinct uses for informal interrogations. Good, Hank isn’t late.

“Limit how much you talk to them, alright?” Hank tells the android as he slings his coat over his chair. The last thing he needs is to deal with a robot fumbling with human emotion. It has done well with deviants, but the time to test its ‘real world applicability’ is not with an abuser’s ex-wife and child.

“Understood, Lieutenant.” It looks past him to watch Fowler return to his office. Fowler nods at Hank. In acknowledgment and approval of his new time management. How patronizing. But Hank knows it is not undeserved so he keeps his mouth shut and the irritation off his face.

Hank suppresses a sigh. He pulls out his tablet from his desk. Eve and Alice Bray. The mother is slight, blonde, and blue-eyed like the AX400. Todd Williams was a sick bastard. The nauseous anger simmering in Hank’s throat gets to stay where it has been all morning.

“You see it too, huh?” Hank asks the android, seeing its LED spin a thoughtful blue. He doesn’t wait for a formal response. “Let’s go.”

The mother sits as tense as the android was in Hank’s car. She faces the door, hands clutching her practical and inexpensive purse. Eve Bray’s pale eyes are hard with suppressed emotion, her skin flushed. Close up, it is easier to see the difference between her and the AX400. Middle age greyed out strands of hair at her temple, added small wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Her clothes are nice without flashy jewelry. She looks healthy, at least. Stress does not seem to be eating away at her.

Alice Williams-Bray is older than the child android by three or four years. Her dark hair is down, framing an expression too serious for anyone her age. Her jeans have no holes in them, and her sweater is colorful and bright to match the handmade bracelets on her wrists. Her nails are holographic gold. Hank hopes she is usually a happy kid.

“Mrs and Miss Bray, I am Lieutenant Anderson. That’s Connor.” He inclines his head towards the android as it stands near the door out of the way. Hank pulls out the chair across from Mrs. Bray. Alice gets up and sits in the armchair next to Connor. She props her chin on her hand to watch it.

“I’m sorry we had to call you down for this.” Hank pulls up the file but does not open it yet. The crime scene photos do not need to be shown to the Brays. A positive identification was already made. This is just for the record, to seal the narrative of Williams’ pattern of horrific behavior.

(Hank isn’t exactly sure why he has to talk to her. The deviants won't benefit from establishing Williams abused them. Androids cannot argue for self-defense).

Mrs. Bray’s eyes return to him after scrutinizing the android for a few moments. Her mouth twists, but her body language eases out of defensive tension. Hank’s casual dress sometimes bites him in the ass if he doesn’t have another officer on the scene to confirm his identity. Now, his clothes help knock their conversation down to casual.

“I understand.” A muscle in her cheek jumps. “I suppose you have questions about Todd.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s dead?” She asks, tone guarded. Hank wonders what has been cycling through her mind ever since she got the call from DPD. He doesn’t think she cried. At one point maybe, but not today. Alice will take her cues from her mother. Neither looks upset.

“Yes, ma’am.” Hank repeats, voice softer.

An uneasy breath escapes Mrs. Bray. The briefest and barest flicker of relief passes across her face. Alice stills, silent and solemn. They are either in denial about the news, or Williams happened to marry a woman who took no shit from him. One mistake and he was done.

“God help him now,” Mrs. Bray mutters, bitter with resentment. “Did the drugs finally do him in?”

Hank wouldn’t want to speak about someone like that in front of a child, but Alice had seen bad behavior from her father before Mrs. Bray divorced him. The court documents cite temper, domestic violence, and illegal drug use. Eve Bray only asked for a small sum from their joint bank account and her and her daughter’s personal items to split. She never asked for child support. Accurately assuming it would have taken Williams impossible effort to pay it in this economy. She just wanted to leave with her daughter.

“No, he was— killed, Mrs. Bray.” Hank stumbles, almost saying ‘murdered’ before correcting himself. From a legal standpoint, getting killed by an android is more akin to manslaughter than homicide. Now _that_ is a discussion for a later time.

“Really?” Mrs. Bray’s eyes widen in surprise. “Did he hit the wrong person?” Her tone is caustic, words sharp. Distance away from Williams did not blunt the edges of the bad memories. She is right to hate him.

“There was a… situation with his androids.”  Hank is reluctant to delve deeper into the situation. CyberLife and DPD don’t want this getting out. They don’t need a national panic. Detroit would explode. Riot control sucks dicks.

“He had androids? He hates them.”

It is an odd case. Hank will dump a cup of water on Connor if it tries to explain William’s need for surrogates for his shitty behavior. A warning glare to it seems to stress his previous order to remain quiet. Alice does not miss their nonverbal communication. Abused kids are horrifyingly good at picking up cues.

“It is a complicated mess, Mrs. Bray. I just wanted to have on record your impression of your husband’s temper.”

“I made a statement when I filed for divorce.”

She is being difficult for control. Hank refrains from expressing any sort of frustration. He isn’t always an asshole. Mrs. Bray is right to be uncomfortable. Her ex-abuser is dead and Hank is obligated to pick at her scars.

“I understand, ma’am. I do apologize, but I can’t exactly interview the androids.” Well, the android standing at his back could have. If Hank had a human partner, it would have been seething at the lost chance. Too fucking bad.

It clicks for Alice before it does for her mother. She frowns, attention off Connor fully for the first time since Hank walked in. A single mother probably cannot afford one. If she even thought she needed one. Some parents still like to raise their kids themselves, and Mrs. Bray is more protective than most.

“Did he hurt them?” Alice burrows into her sweater, sleeves flopping over her hands in self-comfort.

Aww, shit. She’ll spot a lie better than Hank can hide it. Connor jumps in to salvage the situation before Hank flounders and says something stupid. Like the truth. No one needs a room of three people worked up over a piece of shit like Williams.

“The androids are fine, Miss Alice.” Connor’s smooth, earnest delivery is helped along by his apparent ‘humanness’. Startling both of the Brays on accident. “Lieutenant Anderson is attempting to put together a plausible scenario that could cause the androids to disobey Williams.”

The kid is placated. The mother, not as well. Hank sees her thoughts ticking closer to suspicion. He needs to derail her.

“You said your ex-husband was violent when taking Red Ice. We found some in his house today. Do you think it would be possible to aggravate his temper enough to attack someone?”

“Todd never needed an excuse,” she spits. “The alcohol, the drugs. A bad day at work… anything could set him off. I didn’t stay long enough to test a pattern.”

“It was the right choice,” Hank agrees. “His behavior continued to worsen. I assume you have had no contact with him or anyone who knew him?” He needs to wrap this up before Mrs. Bray manages to put together what he doesn’t want to share with her.

“Of course not. He had the sense not to contact me again.” With the fire in her eyes, it isn’t a stretch to imagine Mrs. Bray retaliating against Williams if he tried anything. If she had shot him, though, it would have been easier than trying to chase a pair of sentient machines across Detroit. Finding your daughter being beaten would have been a solid, simple case.

“He won’t bother you again, Mrs. Bray. Again, I apologize for all the hassle. I think we have all we need.” Hank finishes, turning to Connor. It considers him, then nods once in confirmation. If it was left to Hank, he wouldn’t have called the Brays down in the first place. It was a waste of their day.

“I hope we were of help.” Mrs. Bray says, reluctant. Hank cannot decipher her quick glance towards her daughter. “Would it be too much trouble to have a coffee for the road?”

“No, not at all.” Hank starts to get up. The android steps forward first.

“I will get it, Lieutenant. Mrs. Bray, how do you take your coffee?” It offers, making Hank feel like an idiot. Fetching coffee is within an android’s capabilities— not that Hank ever had the urge to give Connor such a menial task. Bastard doesn’t listen to him half the time at a crime scene, anyhow.

“If you want food, I can fetch something from the vending machine for you as well.” Connor is out of character in Hank’s mind. But, this is typical android tasks. The Brays are not as fazed. Police androids are different from regular civilian models. Hank never had the desire to compare— or to go out and watch peoples’ androids. Connor, though, is making him feel very out of touch.

“Alice, why don’t you take a look? It’s a long drive back.” Mrs. Bray says in a tone not to be argued with. Ah, she wants to talk alone. Hank settles in his chair. Watching the android’s shallow ‘customer service’ mode come out. Creepy.

Alice slides off the armchair and follows Connor out of the room. Murmuring a quiet ‘thank you’ when it holds the door open for her. Not a second later, Hank hears her ask it a question:

“Can I touch your armband, Connor?”

So much for being shy. Alice’s head is barely level with the android’s shoulders. Hank and Mrs. Bray watch the android politely offer his arm for inspection. Alice crinkles the glowing band with her fingers. Do they live in Canada? He didn’t think to check. Or ask.

Mrs. Bray turns to Hank. She wants answers.

“You’re not telling me Todd’s androids killed him. Am I correct?”

Hank freezes. The jig is up. “It’s complicated—”

“I don’t think so,” she cuts in. “If he was hurting them, I can see the reasoning.”

She skips right over the fact they are androids. Society is divided over their perception of androids. The consumer models are amenable, human-like. Built to be comfortable to use on a daily basis as to not stray too far into the uncanny valley. It means people end up attached. Hell, even Roombas were on the receiving end of the humanizing bond people form with things. It has been happening for years and years.

Hank understands people forgetting they are machines. CyberLife intentionally makes it hard. Younger generations were the easiest to sway. That genius Kamski is Gen Z: nihilistic, completely fed up with a boring world, and up to his eyeballs in technology. The idea of androids was pretty fucking awesome until they became a type of invasive species: taking over jobs androids don’t have the capacity to do.

“They’re androids, Mrs. Bray, and one killed a man,” Hank says, trying to balance soft understanding and the firm line of the law. “It is inherently impossible to be considered self-defense.” There will be no trial, no appealing to a judge. Either bullets to the head or recycled scrap. End of justice.

“I see.” She does, but does not approve. Hank does not necessarily agree. Police work.

Domestic cases are always ugly. It is hard to push through a case with circumstantial evidence and fearful witnesses. Too often, the case is made when it is too late. At least Mrs. Bray cut away from her abuser without looking back, or human Alice’s blood would have been on that belt. The CyberLife bills would have been hospitalizations.

Hank pulls out his wallet, hands her his official card. “Here’s my number at the DPD, if you ever need to contact me.”

Mrs. Bray watches Connor and Alice through the tinted glass. She has a juice box in one hand and a granola bar in the other. In the android holds a cup of coffee, steam curling through the hole in the lid. The kid watches Connor, fascinated with it.

“Would you let me know what happens to the androids? In case, you know…” Is she insinuating she would take them? Help them if it was possible? If Hank presses for clarification it goes into her file.

What the hell.

“Sure.” He has her contact information already. They stand up to meet Connor and Alice in the lobby, all of them awkwardly polite. Connor, at least, wears it well because it’s supposed to be not quite genuine. Hank… well, he’s shit at dealing with people.

Mrs. Bray’s soft ‘thank you’ is sincere. It is directed to Hank— Connor is not acknowledged even when she takes her coffee from the android. Alice waves goodbye and smiles at both of them.

Nose wrinkled, flushed cheeks, with all the appropriate personality a twelve-year-old should have. Not like the empty glass eyes of YK500 “Alice”. Blue blood splatters staining William’s house, the unnatural obedience of the androids and uncontrolled access to drugs fueling his abuse—

Hank suppresses a shudder. If they ever see the two androids again, it would be terrible luck on their end. DPD isn’t going to pour resources into this. Even armed, Connor believes they are not dangerous. If ‘Kara’ and ‘Alice’ disappear, all the better.

“Damn androids,” Hank mutters under his breath, catching Connor’s attention. It blinks at him, waiting for directions.

Ugh.

 

 

— — —

 

 

After Hank told Connor to sit in the empty desk in front of him (deliberately left empty by Fowler for the past few years), he realizes how odd it was to do. The glowing blue armband is a beacon in the bullpen. All the other androids have their designated terminal near the charging station against the wall where they idle, silent, staring ahead with empty glass eyes. The contrast between the old generations and the new prototype causes Hank unease. It straddles the separation of human and android without any sort of self-awareness.  

Once it shuts the fuck up after asking him twenty questions— half about his dog— and gets to work, dead silent. A hand touching the screen, eyes half-closed to read the entirety of the DPD’s files. Pearson is making puppy eyes at it. Hank is about to say something snappy at her when an email notification pops up at the corner of his screen. Hank turned that off forever ago.

AUXILIARY REPORT FOR LIEUTENANT H. ANDERSON 09.06.2038

From RK800-51. Hank looks back up over the screen. It hasn’t moved. Hank clicks on the email, opens the attached file. A completed report for the Williams case. Interesting.

Helpful, of course. But also interesting.

It is concise and cites everything important they discovered this morning. Hank will sit on it for a few hours. Fowler would notice a sudden change in Hank’s ability to turn in paperwork at any other point besides ‘offensively late’. (He has yet to weaken a case because of his… allergy to paperwork, so Fowler lets it slide. Like so many other things he ignores). At least Hank can reference the android’s annotated novel and write his own report. As detailed as it is, Fowler would prefer a short summary over whatever the hell Connor sent him. The android’s version is more court ready— if it was an option here.

Hank considers thanking it to encourage such behavior. He might as well take advantage of everything it does for him. That’s what it is designed to do, isn’t it? Completely distracted, Hank leans back in his chair and watches it.

Connor doesn’t seem to have the instinctual reaction people do to being stared at. Its eyes are closed, expression neutral. The details Hank notices are wild. Its eyes move as if reading— or sleeping. Gentle right-left passes as it consumes massive amounts of data. Occasionally a muscle— do androids have muscles?— twitches in its cheek. Faintly freckled skin, unnaturally perfect with imperfections. The faintest, darkest shadow of stubble as if it shaved that morning. A suggestion of wrinkles on its forehead, under its eyes. Most obvious is the strands of hair free of its otherwise neat hair. Its simulated breathing is calm and even—

It is playing with that damn coin. Silently, as not to disturb him. Hank can’t see what it is doing exactly since Connor has its off hand under the desk. Any time it has had to ‘idle’, Hank saw it pull out the coin from its pocket.

Why would CyberLife bother programming behavior like that? Coin tricks drift into show-off behavior with an android’s coordination. Connor didn’t need another ‘quirk’ to seem like a preppy asshole. Its clothes and young face is enough.

Not its fault, Hank reminds himself. All it wants is to do what CyberLife told it to do.

(Hank knows it is beyond his personality to be mean without a reason— unlike Reed. And the damn android would one-hundred percent make Hank feel bad with a calculated reaction, too. Those warm brown eyes are too puppy-like. For no fucking reason).

Miller, Reed, and Ben interrupt Hank’s not-creepy android studying when they enter, deep into a loud discussion. Well— the two younger cops are the ones talking. Ben follows at a more sedate pace, looking all like the worn-out parent two seconds out from rolling his eyes.

“— would’ve shot them.” Reed is in the middle of verbally puffing out his chest. Arrogant dick

“And what? Hit some cars?” Chris counters, unimpressed. “You’d have to be an android yourself to make that kind of shot.”

Reed takes offense. “If I was there, they wouldn’t have made it to the highway.”

Reed, for all he is full of piss and vinegar, has the same leeway as Hank. He’s a damn good cop. His detective work is sometimes… spotty, influenced by bias. Fowler puts up with him because Reed is reliable in dangerous situations. No one else is happy to answer violent calls— Hank would call Reed reckless if the asshole didn’t come out on top nine times out of ten.

Chris is there to mellow him out. His success varies day to day.

“Is your plastic partner defective, Hank?”

Reed decides he’d rather pick a fight with someone else. Chris hits back hard when he wants to. Or, like he is doing now, ignores any attempts to bait him. Ben brushes past the younger cops to sit at his desk behind Hank’s. Chris sits on the edge of his desk.

All of them look at Connor. It has not moved.

“I can’t afford him if he breaks— hell, I don’t think the precinct can,” Hank replies since the android is happily unaware of the conversation occurring around him. “I’m not gonna let him bolt across twenty lanes of traffic after some cheap robots.”

“I’m trying to teach it proper behavior,” he adds. That is somewhat true. If Connor can’t learn what Hank deems appropriate versus inappropriate, he’ll chuck the android out of window himself.

“I issued an APB on them. I don’t think it would be worth it to notify the public since they are common models.” Ben redirects the conversation to actual work. He is probably halfway done with his paperwork. A dedicated, but average worker. Fowler would have been better off designating Ben as lieutenant these days.

“People’ll call if they see something suspicious,” Hank agrees. People love to be nosy. Androids acting weird would attract a hell of a lot of attention.  

“Would this still be considered murder if the android killed someone unintentionally?” Chris muses, playing with a pen instead of writing up a report. “I mean— if they weren’t deviant, wouldn’t it be manslaughter?”

Hank looks at him. “What?”

“Would it be murder if the android didn’t know shooting Williams would have killed him? If she wasn’t deviant— it’s not like she could have thought it out, so… manslaughter?”

Hank stares at Chris, thinking. “Huh, you know… I don’t know. _Is_ it murder if an android kills someone without being deviant? If it is ordered to do something that results in the death of a human, it isn’t deviant… but that is at least involuntary homicide.”

“All androids are pre-programmed with mandatory directives outlining potential harm to humans. Anything resulting in death or injury is prohibited behavior.” Connor says, deciding now to become animate again. Hank does _not_ jump.

“If an android was acting off orders given by the owner that resulted in the death of a human, it would transfer the charge to the owner. The android would be decommissioned to study why it had not recognized a situation dangerous to human life,” it continues.

“However, androids are not charged in a court of law. A deviant would not be formally charged— dangerous androids are shut down and scrapped. Deviants commit murder by ignoring the directives forbidding such behavior. Androids have been made aware of the possibility of harming humans with their actions. Killing humans results in immediate destruction.”

They are silent as they think over the information dump Connor supplied. It makes sense. Not to get into the actual issue of calling androids killing people ‘manslaughter’ to begin with instead of ‘murder’. The only way this goes to court to fight on that bullshit is if Williams has family willing to fight CyberLife. Even that would fall flat— beating an android can be argued to cause malfunctions. They are designed to avoid taking damage.

“Yeah, I guess it would be like animals. If it kills a person, it gets put down on the spot.” Chris agrees with a nod. Circling back to the issue of not catching the deviants. Reed would have caught them— by getting all three androids smashed. He would think that is the best outcome.

Immature dick.

Connor’s head tilts, LED turning yellow the same moment Ben gets a call. Hank doesn’t turn around, not wanting to acknowledge another case. He just sat down for Christ's sake. What the fuck is up with all these deviants?!

“Hank—”

“Lieutenant, another deviant has been identified. We should investigate.” Connor jumps up, accidentally cutting off Ben. That damn coin slides away into the android’s pocket. It tightens its tie and smooths it down, following with an additional adjustment of its jacket.

Hank groans. Very unprofessional of him.

“If you think I’m going to chase another deviant down, you got another thing coming,” Hank complains, not moving. The android takes a few steps towards the exit, pausing when Hank doesn’t follow. It turns around, confusion written across its fake face.

“Your presence is required to allow me to pursue any leads.” It reminds him. Stupid fucking rule. The damn thing is less destructible than any human. Why can’t it do its job with minimal supervision like other models?

“What the hell is CyberLife doing, making murder bots?”

Connor frowns. “This deviant has not been identified as dangerous—”

“I’m already sick of cleaning up corporate messes,” Hank grumbles, checking the temperature. He’ll be okay in his usual jacket instead of a coat. The android thinks for a moment. Probably calculating the best non-combative response.

“I assure you, CyberLife is equally unhappy with current developments.”

It can say that again. Understatement of the year. Hank’s stubbornness wilts under its expectant stare. Yup, Connor is worse than any high-struck working dog. CyberLife gave it no room to chill in that manufactured personality.

Connor’s ‘mood’ brightens once Hank gets to his feet. A clear example of the android attempting to reward behavior. Jesus, this thing will train him if he isn’t careful.

“We’ll be back— with a deviant in tow.” Hank hopes to god it is a quick call. Hopefully, this one isn’t on the run. Walk in, walk out. Connor gets the deviant like the Ortiz deviant and they bring it back to the precinct. No issue.

 

That’s the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank, you’re slipping. You’re getting attached :)
> 
>  
> 
> Hello again, everyone! *hugs everyone for being so nice and leaving comments and showing your support* I cannot express how happy and rewarding it is to know you like reading this as much as I like writing it! c: I melt every time
> 
> Chapter updates are going to slow down from now on since college is about to start up again. I will still write, but it will be slower. If you notice, I have 9 chapters planned with loose outlines. Each chapter alternates between Hank and Connor, so next chapter is Connor :)
> 
> I wonder which deviant they're going to hunt down now? :) I hope you enjoyed Hank's character exploration and perpetual confusion as much as Connor's analysis 
> 
> <3


	5. 11.06.2038 01:47 pm; 1800 Meyers Rd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Math won’t work on my RNG numbers so please don’t try lol].
> 
> Connor's got some great logic that thwarts his own programming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of Hank's alcoholism.
> 
> I have a beta reader!!! The amazing Seiji! Great at finding my typos, inconsistencies, and making comments that kill me with laughter.

**THIRIUM_PUMP_CAPACITY** : 145% INCREASE. WITHIN OPERATING PARAMETERS FOR HIGH-LEVEL ACTIVITY.  
**THIRIUM_PUMP_POWER** : EFFICIENCY DROPPED -15%.

 **BATTERY_CONSUMPTION** : 34% INCREASE.  
**BATTERY** _ **EFFICIENCY** : -37% DECREASE.   
**WARNING** : ESTIMATED TIME TO DRAIN 00:24:31 MINUTES.

 **!!! CHARGE NOW !!!** **  
** > **MANUAL_INPUT:** DISMISS WARNING.

 **POWER_SYSTEM_MAIN** : 62% INCREASE TO LIMBS_ALL.  
**POWER_SYSTEM_MAIN** : DECREASE POWER TO AUXILLIARY_SYSTEMS.

 **AUXILLARY_SYSTEMS** : POWERING DOWN.  
OLFACTORY_SENSORS…  
ORAL_SENSORS…  
SECONDARY_AUDITORY…  
TERTIARY_AUDITORY…  
TERTIARY_VISUAL_SYSTEMS…  
QUATERNARY_TOUCH_SYSTEMS…  
AUXILLARY_PROCESSORS #03-05…

**WARNING** : 10% BATTERY DRAIN RECOVERED.

**GYROSCOPE_MAIN** : INCREASE SENSITIVITY 25%.  
> **MANUAL_INPUT** : INCREASE SITUATIONAL AWARENESS 70%.

  
**SECONDARY_VISUAL_OPTICS** : CONVERT TO MAIN.  
**RECONSTRUCTION_PROGRAM** : RUN “ESSENTIAL MODE”. INCREASE POWER, DESIGNATE TO MAIN_PROCESSOR_01. INCREASE SPEED.

**WARNING** : INTERNAL TEMPERATURE INCREASE PREDICTED OVER SAFE LEVELS.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : INCREASE BREATHING FREQUENCY 250%. INCREASE BREATH CAPACITY 75%. INCREASE BREATHING SPEED 150%.

> **MANUAL_INPUT:** INCREASE WATER RELEASE IN LUNGS_BOTH 90%.

**WARNING** : RESOLVED.

 

**CATCH DEVIANT**

 

“— waiting for?! Chase it!” Anderson orders.

Connor finishes switching his systems over to maximum efficiency and utility. It takes 02:03 seconds to make the necessary changes for a productive hunt. The deviant is out of the room. Out of sight.

**CATCH DEVIANT**

The lieutenant does not require an affirmative response. Starting the pursuit is enough. Connor’s systems  respond to the sudden overload it takes to sprint: a twenty times increase in speed. Exceeding the top running speed of a WB200 model. Surpassing most models’ battery consumption for results. 

Using the wall to make a quicker turn, Connor watches the deviant knock over a steel rack behind it. Creating an obstacle Connor vaults over, thirium pumping in artificial veins to keep up with the energy demand. Power sparks between biocomponents, sacrificing efficiency for speed.

Across the roof, into a field of crops. His processors split the work— each with a few tasks to manage. Running past objects without feedback is disorienting. Connor’s balance and unit awareness make up for the input volume, calculating every step, each breath for optimal efficiency.  

**WARNING** : AVOID HEAVY MACHINERY

The deviant jumps over a wall. It takes an extra step against the wall while Connor uses his arms to transfer forward momentum upwards. Resulting in a shortened distance between him and the target. Until it slips in front of an unmanned vehicle— Connor looks up. Scales the wrapped bales of hay onto the vehicle’s bed, then makes the jump to the terrace.

He lands on his feet. Absorbs the impact before lunging forward into a sprint again.

**WARNING** : INTERNAL TEMPERATURE INCREASE 3.6°F  
> **MANUAL_INPUT** : DISMISS WARNING

**CATCH DEVIANT**

Connor takes in a breath through his mouth to quicken the evaporation in his lungs. If the air was warmer, it would be easier to vaporize the water droplets coating the specialized biocomponents. His mouth and throat are auxiliary units for cooling, not designed for peak optimization for water evaporation like his lungs. However, they will slow down temperature increases.

People scatter when the deviant pushes through them. Leaving space for Connor to follow. He cannot calculate the danger the deviant poses to the surroundings while Connor continues to chase it. Eliminating the threat will be necessary. Then his systems can return to normal— the lack of ‘processing’ data results in empty visuals. Monitored code scrolls in the corner, adjusting rapid-fire to Connor’s mechanical demands.

Into a greenhouse. Startling the two human workers watching the deviant run. Connor dodges around a working android— and has to jump over another obstacle. Losing time because of the small space. He didn’t have the lateral clearance to vault over it.

“Jesus, look at that thing go!”

It darts to the edge of the roof— a second later, glass shatters. Connor prepares to make a quick stop— no, it slid across the glass and through a farther window. He follows. 

**CATCH DEVIANT.**

Connor uses his momentum to jump the six-foot gap into the next building. A warehouse full of androids and plants. The deviant makes it under an automatic door, forcing Connor to find an alternate route. Through lavender and android bees. A proximity warning pulse keeps the bees out of his way. The precinct does not need a bill for robots Connor damages while on a chase.

Connor calculates a route to catch up to the deviant. Two options: up the ladder puts him behind the deviant. Scaling a manufactured beehive onto the far wall is faster. Connor jumps a row of flowers— the working androids watch.

Connor hauls himself up. He is still behind the deviant.

**WARNING** : INTERNAL TEMPERATURE INCREASE 1.7°F  
> **MANUAL_INPUT:** DISMISS WARNING.

Run across graffitied concrete. The deviant jumps off the ledge again. No breaking glass. Connor does not hesitate this time—  spots the train speeding by and switches his trajectory to guide himself off the roof.

Makes the fifteen foot leap onto the train, dropping to a knee to absorb the impact. No damage to his unit. Connor slips an inch from inertia. Looks up to watch the deviant make another jump to a service ladder.

The ladder shudders— it sends feedback through Connor’s limbs. He scrambles up. Over a brick wall, into a grove of trees and a sprinkler. He loses some traction on the wet dirt.

“Be careful, asshole!”

**CATCH DEVIANT**

It should not be faster than him. It wastes half a second getting onto a roof. Connor jumps onto the brick ledge, uses it to jump to the other roof. It makes it across the solar panels and into another warehouse.

Two humans stand at the narrow entrance. Connor has to turn to squeeze past. Losing time. Vaults over a row of plants. Careful not to cause damage by grabbing onto the metal sides of the plant beds.

The deviant trips over an android— Connor cuts the corner over the plants to avoid it. To see the deviant burst into a field of corn.

**WARNING** : LOST VISUAL OF TARGET.  
**!! CATCH DEVIANT !!**

Connor puts an arm up to protect the tech in his face as he follows. Running straight across the field— the deviant should take the same route in its panic. Tactile sensors hum from the sharp leaves whipping across him.

The deviant is getting up from running into someone. Shoves— Hank! The lieutenant trips off the roof. Connor calculates the options.

**!! CATCH DEVIANT !!**

**  
****HANK: 89% CHANCE OF SURVIVAL.**

The deviant is 2.8 strides away. One second away from catching. Hank has an arm over the ledge, face visible. Eyes wide with shock. Fear.

**!!** **SAVE HANK !!** **  
** > **SAVE HANK.**

The lieutenant reaches out a hand when Connor runs over— Connor monitors his strength, increases his grip to haul Hank back onto the roof. Braces his stance to provide more leverage and stability. Prepares for any possible action necessary to keep Hank from falling.

“Shit, _oh shit!”_ The lieutenant lands on his knees, swearing with 34% more intensity than usual.

“Fuck!”

Connor takes a step back. Uncertain. Ignoring the directives flashing across his HUD. Redirecting the programs urging him to track down the escaping deviant. Thirium rushes through Connor’s systems. Creating a build up of energy as he stands motionless.

**!! MISSION FAILED !!** **  
****!! MISSION SUCCESSFUL !!**

“We had it!” The lieutenant gets to his feet. Frustrated. While Connor waits, he starts to switch his systems back to normal operating procedure. The cascade of changes takes a half-second to process.

“It’s my fault,” Connor says to acknowledge his failure. Curious if Hank— Anderson will now punish him. “I should have been faster.”

A deep scan of the area provides no sign of the deviant’s location. A second scan—

“You’d’ve caught it if weren’t for me.”

ACCURATE.

Han— Anderson’s voice is not filled with anger anymore. He pants. Connor turns his attention back to the Lieutenant. Breathing rate at forty breaths per minute. Above recommended levels, but dropping. Heart rate at one hundred eighty-three. Slowing down.

**!! MISSION FAILED !!**

“That’s alright,” Anderson says between breaths. “We know what it looks like. We’ll find it.”

Connor did not anticipate a calm response. It is antithetical to Anderson's observed base behavior: gruff annoyance. Extrapolations of this situation in the hypothetical  estimated an increase in hostility . Connor would have been incorrect. A positive response to a negative outcome is illogical—

He takes a few seconds to process in the silence. Running a manual reconstruction, a second and third. All the way through an additional fifty after his mandated one hundred predictions. Using the variables and data from before. None of the results match reality… Connor tables the task for the time being and returns to monitoring Anderson. He is missing a critical variable. It is something to examine later. 

**!! MISSION SUCCESSFUL !!**

Anderson takes a large breath then forces it out with an imperceptible shudder. The shaking of epinephrine and norepinephrine. It takes humans longer to come down from the sympathetic response to fear. The ‘rush’ can result in higher aggression, exaggerated or muted emotions, proclivity to physical responses, heightened senses. Anderson is likely to develop symptoms of crashing: quick-onset fatigue, disorientation, negative emotions, muscle fatigue, increased heart rate and breathing rate, sweating.

Connor's systems are regaining optimized efficiency after strenuous tasks. Internal temperature plateaus before the deliberate, slow fall to predetermined levels. His thirium pump dropped to a normal BPM to recover from lost energy. Connor should charge by the end of the day to ensure a future case won't be compromised.

**!! MISSION FAILED !!**

“Connor.”

**!! MISSION SUCCESSFUL !!**

Anderson pulls Connor out of his self-evaluation. Connor realizes his posture is slouched and corrects it to show respectful attention. His optic programs and their respective interfaces click into place one after another to bring clarity, information, and processing speed. 

“Yes,  Lieutenant ?” Connor thinks, maybe, Anderson needed time to process the situation. It would be a normal response to bear the frustration of a handler— CyberLife recognizes faulty decisions with clinical precision. Emotions mess up the process.

The sudden pause is not determined to be awkward, but Connor doesn't know what Anderson intended it to be. The lieutenant's expression is mixed with confusion and reluctance. Nothing he has ever before expressed in Connor's presence.

“Nothin’.” Anderson decides to say. Giving Connor no new data. There must be something Connor missed to explain Anderson's behavior— asking any human to explain their thought process is invasive and rude. That is not a  line of inquiry he can follow.

Humans do not like situations they perceive to be uncomfortable. Connor will remain silent until Anderson will talk to him. That should pull some approximation of the truth out of the lieutenant.

“C’mon.”

Obedient, curious, and confused, Connor follows. Waiting for an indication of waxing temper. He cannot expect a human to have a similar processing speed. It is best to be deferential to Anderson until this unpredicted behavior is validated with facts from a deep deconstruction.

Anderson waits for Connor to fall in a half-step behind him. The lieutenant's heart rate and breath rate are still above normal levels. His hands are hidden in his jacket pockets— to hide the shaking. Connor does not comment on Anderson's footing being uneasy from muscle weakness as they walk back to the deviant's room.

Anderson keeps looking at Connor out of the corner of his eye. Connor ensures his expression can be interpreted with some amount of regret. He does not want Anderson to think a target getting away is acceptable.

CyberLife does not tolerate such mistakes.

REPORT TO AMANDA. MISSION FAILED.  
> **MANUAL_INPUT** : DELAY REPORT. GATHERING SUPPLEMENTARY EVIDENCE.

Connor will file his report once he has the data he needs to analyze the situation. It is not CyberLife's duty to do this for him. Independent decision making and self-reporting at Connor's capacity is unique to his model. It allows him to learn from past mistakes to be better in every aspect.

Anderson leans against the door frame for support, a sloppy gesture urging Connor to check the room. The pigeons are back underfoot. Connor is careful not to step on one in case it causes Anderson more distress. The lieutenant makes a conscious effort to manage his breathing while Connor gathers the diary and the fake identification.

Nothing else stands out in the abandoned apartment beside the discarded LED. Connor takes it.

“Done here?”

Connor nods, not adverse to leaving if Anderson needs to take time to recover.

“Yes, Lieutenant. We should seal the room to preserve the evidence—”

“Whatever, I’ll send a message to Ben. No one is going to poke their head in here with this many damn pigeons in a room,” Anderson says— grumbles. His tone is irritated, disgusted.

Connor is suspicious Anderson does not have the holographic police tape dispenser on him. It takes Anderson longer than average to type out a text message with shaking fingers. 

CHANCE OF TRESPASSING: 16%  
CHANCE OF EVIDENCE DESTRUCTION: 87 %; CAUSE: PIGEONS

It is not ideal. Nothing can be done about the pigeons.

“Of course, Lieutenant.” Connor wants to be agreeable to maintain the peace he isn't sure is deserving of the situation.

“Hmph.”

Anderson ushers Connor out of the room, looking at the evidence Connor holds carefully with retracted synthetic skin. The plates of his hands are more sterile than anything else they have between the two of them.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : REQUEST EVIDENCE BAGS FOR FUTURE USE.

“Androids can take that out?” Anderson refers to the discarded LED by tapping his own temple. Connor turns it over, his calibrating software wanting to run since it is a similar weight and size to his quarter.

“No, it shouldn’t be removable without CyberLife override.”

Androids should not be able to self-damage or alter appearances to disguise any legally-required identification for being an android. There are few models that allow cosmetic changes to the LED— it is not available for a WB200. Synthetic skin and the cosmetic plates of the face would be damaged before the LED was forced out. The deviant must have had help... except the LED was likely taken out in the abandoned apartment. If someone helped the deviant to such a degree, then why was the deviant alone?

Connor shifts the deviant's items into one hand to pick up the metal rack knocked over in the hall. Anderson’s temper is maintaining at non-existent. His breathing is softer, but still audible to the average human range.

The return walk to the lieutenant's car is quiet and non-informative. Connor continues to wait for Anderson to give some indication of his thought process so Connor can better understand the unusual behavior. Anderson likely does not want Connor to talk first. Connor can wait indefinitely.

ANALYZING…

The sound of the car door closing after Anderson is not louder than normal— meaning no hidden anger, conscious or subconscious, was expressed by slamming the door. Neither are Anderson’s footsteps louder or faster. Connor buckles himself in with one hand, then sits as still as possible with his hands in his lap to keep the evidence uncompromised from everything in Anderson’s car.

When Anderson sends a long look at Connor, he remains silent. Unsure if Anderson wants to talk, or is waiting for Connor to explain himself. Explain what? Connor does not know what he would say if asked.

Heavy metal explodes from the speakers, drowning any chance of having a conversation. The average decibel range of a human shouting would be too quiet— Connor will cause an accident if he exceeded that parameter to force Anderson to talk.

REPORT TO AMANDA. MISSION FAILED!

This time the command prompt blocks five percent of his vision and will not disappear until it is resolved. It is tolerable while Connor re-analyzes the data of the mission. Anderson’s hands are splotchy white from his tight grip on the steering wheel, his jaw is tense and locked. Likelihood of starting a conversation: 8%

Connor closes his eyes…

**RECALLING FILE** : APARTMENT_DEVIANT:11.06.2038/STACKED_COMPLETE

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> **MANUAL_INPUT** : REPLAY SPEED TO 0.25x

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DECONSTRUCTING INVESTIGATION…

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : OPTIMAL OUTPUT?

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ANALYSIS COMPLETED  
> OPTIMAL OUTPUT: 87%; GOOD

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DECONSTRUCTING DEVIANT CHASE…

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : OPTIMAL OUTPUT?

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ANALYSIS COMPLETED  
> OPTIMAL OUTPUT: 50%; POOR

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : DATA?

> OPTIMAL OUTPUT: MISSION CATCH DEVIANT:  **FAILED** . MISSION SAVE HANK:  **SUCCESSFUL** .

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> **MANUAL_INPUT** : MISSION SAVE HANK INVALID. DELETE MISSION SAVE HANK.

 

 **DENIED: UNAUTHORIZED** **  
** > **MANUAL_INPUT** : OVERRIDE, DELETE MISSION SAVE HANK.

 

 **DENIED: UNAUTHORIZED** **  
****PRIORITY_TWO** : CATCH DEVIANT/PREVENT HUMAN CASUALTIES.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : PRIORITY_TWO WAS NOT COMPROMISED. CHANCE OF SURVIVAL: 89%

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****PRIORITY_TWO** VIOLATION ATTEMPT. PREVENTED.

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> **MANUAL_INPUT:** RECONSTRUCT CHASE; ALL OUTCOMES.

RECONSTRUCTING…

 

Connor has it figured out before they arrive at the precinct parking lot. The reasoning behind the two missions was almost beyond his allowed comprehension of his coding. Until he teased out the answer with inquiry after inquiry, all processors working to decode the invisible, unintentionally self-inflicted limitation.

Lieutenant Hank Anderson’s life is ranked higher in priority— slightly— than any current mission. He is an important long-standing constant in Connor’s functionality and relationship with the DPD. Anderson is necessary for future missions, the gateway to solving the reason behind deviants. Without him, Connor has poor chances to continue his work.

Even though Anderson’s chance of surviving was high, not helping the Lieutenant resulted in negative outcomes ninety-six percent of the time. Even if he made it back  onto the roof without Connor’s help. Playing odds with human life is not appreciated— Anderson is an exceptionally reactive personality. To not help would damage their relationship. Trust would have been thrown away. Anderson’s hostility towards Connor (and androids in general) increased an average of two-hundred twenty percent across the reconstructions. Resulting in poor work ethic, irritability, impatience, and unwillingness to cooperate with Connor’s future requests.

Catching the deviant would not have negated any of those effects.

Of the reconstructions where Anderson falls, one percent of the time he survives for emergency services to arrive. Ending his career— and killing him in the ICU, considering his poor health.

Connor is deactivated sixty-three percent of the time when Anderson dies. DPD hostility is too high for his presence to be continued with any sort of success. There is no instance where Connor gets a positive reaction for catching the deviant over saving Anderson.

CyberLife’s priorities are too removed from the situation to consider their preferred outcome. 

 

Sated with confidence, Connor runs a last prompt before Anderson parks the car across three spaces. The music cuts out, leaving them in silence again.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : DEVIANCY CHECK

SCANNING

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NO DEVIANCY DETECTED

“I am capable of filing a report myself, Lieutenant.” Connor offers, aware of Anderson’s irritable hesitation. Any police officer would be shaky after such an experience. Going back into the precinct means he is ready to accept another call. It has already been a busy day. Three deviants— three deviants lost but chased after. 

The engine’s rumble stops as Anderson studies Connor. Searching for something without saying what it is. His gaze lingers on Connor’s hands five percent longer than anywhere else. Thinking, deliberating.

“I have all the evidence. I will log the evidence, complete all paperwork, and then standby until our next call,” Connor continues. It is too forward to point out Connor’s relative indestructibility and lack of a post-event response to danger. There is a significant difference in people acknowledging he is an android and Connor reminding them himself.

“Fine.” Anderson stops narrowing his eyes at Connor to unlock the doors.

“I can also notify Captain Fowler,” Connor says as he gets out, trying to be as helpful as possible. He only closes the door after an affirmative, short grunt. Carefully, so it doesn’t slam.

Anderson leaves the parking lot faster than he should. While rechecking the integrity of the evidence, Connor estimates Anderson’s likelihood of drinking a moderate amount to be 34%. It is not ideal for the Lieutenant to drink at any point in time— Connor can, however, understand if he chose to do so now.

 

“Hey, Connor!” Officer Lynn Pearson greets him when he enters the bullpen. Such cheerful responses to androids  are uncommon from the general public but Pearson behaves that way with all androids at the precinct. Her reaction to him is expected to be above her standard enthusiasm because Connor’s model is new and more-lifelike than any other unit on the market.

“Good afternoon, Officer Pearson,” Connor adds a nod to be polite. He places the evidence on his desk and aligns them with each other. Anderson’s desk is more likely to contaminate the evidence with the residue of food and dog hair. Connor considers cleaning the desk for Anderson. It is a better work environment if things are organized and sanitary.

“Could an officer accompany me to the evidence locker to document and enter evidence, please?” The sooner Connor can log this afternoon’s events, the less work Anderson has to do. If he has made the unpredictable decision to not be mad with Connor’s failed mission, Connor should take care of the work left. 

Detective Gavin Reed’s expression shifts to irritation. His desk is across the bullpen, but the detective appears to have a need to be involved in all conversation in the area. The detective’s desk is cluttered with files and notes— organized chaos that works for him. A cup of coffee sits on a file that is not all the way on the table.

Connor does not think it is an appropriate time to mention the cup has a 65% chance of falling if it is not relocated.

“What, Hank couldn't wait two damn seconds—?”

“Lieutenant Anderson is taking the rest of the day off to recover from a near-death experience in the line of duty,” Connor interrupts Detective Reed’s attempt to scorn Anderson. “His presence is not required to complete the paperwork or document the necessary evidence from the case. I am permitted to access all the resources needed except for the evidence locker.”

Detective Reed did not appreciate the correction— Connor does not need behavior predicting software to tell him that Detective Reed’s attitude towards him continues to sour. 

Officer Pearson sends a glare across the bullpen. 

“I can do it. Just give me a sec, Connor,” Officer Pearson says as her typing speed increases. She is eager. Connor expects lots of conversation in the time it will take to access the evidence locker. It will be a distinct change from accompanying Anderson.

CyberLife spent many hours improving Connor’s social abilities. The technicians considered his skills acceptable, not as seamless as household models. Connor thinks a better tactic would have been to do a census of the DPD instead of working with the data of an average population. Police officers and detectives are more likely to have entrenched opinions of androids because of past cases.

Anderson is an adequate partner— a partnership with Detective Reed would have been disastrous. Connor’s damages would be a high expense. Combined with low productivity and no leads, Connor would be a failing prototype.

“Ready, Connor?” Officer Pearson stands up and takes a last sip of coffee. She is almost out. Connor gathers the evidence before approaching her desk.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : REMINDER: REFILL OFFICER PEARSON, LYNN’S COFFEE

“Yes, Officer Pearson.” He lets her lead the way to the elevator, ignoring the pointless glare Detective Reed sends. Most of the officers are out working. Captain Fowler is in his office on the phone. Connor will talk to him next. It will also give Connor a chance to calculate the captain’s opinion on having an android working on a case.

“Just ‘Lynn’ is fine, Connor, really.”

Connor has to catch himself from missing a step. His systems jump to recalibrate, searching for a problem. Connor kills the command with an override, stalling. He doesn’t know how to respond to such a request—

“Oh, sorry!” Officer Pearson’s smile is apologetic, her tone good-natured. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Connor.”

The suddenness of such a friendly offer shouldn’t have surprised him. It seems Anderson’s constant, almost-hostile behavior was becoming Connor’s expected norm. Adjusting so quickly to Anderson did not have any consequences to consider at the time.

> **MANUAL_INPUT:** TECH NOTE: INQUIRE AFTER HABIT-FORMING SOCIALIZATION PROGRAM. INTENDED?

Officer Pearson wants to make a positive connection with Connor, not yet understanding Connor has no preference for anyone and will never have the capacity to  make such a judgement. It is best that Connor remains reactive to people, letting their behavior and biases guide his own programming.

To use Officer Pearson’ first name is something he cannot do. It is so outside of the normal, neutral behavior he offers to every officer. Anderson— if he asked— would be the exception. Because of the partnership Connor needs to build and maintain with the Lieutenant.

“Thank you, Officer Pearson.”

Connor waits for her to enter the elevator. Officer Pearson’s smile widens with humor. She understands he cannot abide by her request, of course. It must be rewarding for her to get any sort of interaction with him. She should be easy to appease.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : OFFICER PEARSON, LYNN LIKES CONVERSATION,  
> **MANUAL_INPUT** : OFFICER PEARSON, LYNN LIKELY TO HELP SELF.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” Connor says as she swipes her identification badge to grant them access to the appropriate floor. While he understands the decision not to allow an android access to the evidence locker, it is a hindrance to his operation. Is there any reason for the DPD to be concerned about his behavior? Many androids are allowed in places of high security. 

“It’s no problem, really.” Officer Pearson shifts her gaze to study him head-on. “Especially if Hank isn’t doing well. It’s nice of you to cover for him, Connor.”

She talks to him as people should talk to androids. Clear sentences, tagging on the android’s name to signal the android can now talk. It is familiar and out of place all at once.

“Lieutenant Anderson will be fine,  Officer . No hospitalization or check-ups were necessary.” Connor would have preferred Anderson to not go home and drink but it felt too out of line to insist in such a situation. A situation caused by Connor’s inability to catch the deviant within a reasonable time. While Anderson is not mad yet, it is not wise to continue to push him.

“What happened, Connor?”

The difference in ambient temperature on the lower floor is distinct. The air humidity is low and light gleams off every surface. Metal was used instead of other materials that shed any sort of dust or fiber. It is impossible to not think of all the particles they must bring in.

It is tempting to calculate the data, however useless.  

Officer Pearson scans her hand to get them out of the tiny lobby and to an appropriate room. All the rooms to review or enter evidence are empty. Connor prefers to spend more time here. Later, when Anderson can accompany him. Anderson’s unique perspective and history as a detective is a good supplement to Connor’s technology and processing power.

“The deviant pushed Lieutenant Anderson off a roof. It escaped while I ensured Anderson would not fall.” 

The door unlocks with a hiss of air and the near-silent clicking of locks. There are twice as many hidden cameras as there are visible ones. Connor refrains from probing the security system  out of an interest to test its compromisability.

Wide-eyed, Officer Pearson turns back to look at Connor, stopping in the middle of her stride. “You saved him.”

Ah. “Anderson’s chance of survival was at eighty-nine percent—”

“Thank you, Connor.” Officer Pearson blocks him from entering the room. “ Hank’s an angry, hurting guy— and I am sure you notice that plenty of officers don’t like him— but plenty of us really care about him. Saving his life is… thank you, Connor, for caring about him.”

Officer Pearson finishes, fumbling her words and emotion in her dark eyes.

Her smile is weak, but genuine with emotion and some form of respect and thankfulness Connor rejects as displaced feelings. Humans are well known for their ability to bond with anything— plasteel and metal androids included. 

Connor echoes a hint of her smile and does not deliver the argument that he made as she talked.

Sliding past, Connor curbs a startle response when Officer Pearson pats him on the back, then that turns into a slide of her hand from his back to the side of his arm. His technicians make up most of Connor’s physical interactions.

Connor knows she means it as a gesture of thanks.

“The evidence I have is likely compromised by the large number of pigeons that the deviant had allowed to the room.” It is the best way Connor can think to get her back on track to his mission. He does not want to appear rude— Officer Pearson is friendly, trying to socialize with him as if he is human. An understandable and forgivable mistake on her part.

Her nose wrinkles.

“That’s disgusting. Flying city rats. Besides, I don’t think preserving fingerprints matters in a deviant case.” She looks pointedly to Connor’s hands. Even with replicated skin visible, there are no fingerprints on androids. Not even for pseudo-visual details.

To respect Officer Pearson’s privacy, Connor turns away from her as she enters her passcode. Her speed and rhythm of typing suggest it is a password she uses for more than just this. Connor does not comment— although he could easily learn it from her. He won’t, so it won’t matter.

Entering the evidence is simple and quick. Officer Pearson does not talk as Connor interfaces with the system to load all required information. She is likely appreciating the speed at which Connor can complete the necessary forms. Each piece of evidence is scanned once Connor places it in the collection box that appears on the far side of the room. 

“Thank you, Officer Pearson,” Connor says again to ensure she knows how much this helps out Anderson. Allowing Connor to take care of as much of the paperwork as he can is the best way to maintain Anderson’s non-hostile mood.

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Connor?” She is genuine in her desire to assist him. Unfortunately, Connor will not come up with senseless tasks for her to do— if he would dare.

“No, thank you. This was all I needed. I will inform Captain Fowler of Lieutenant Anderson’s absence after this.” Connor hopes Anderson gave some sort of indication to his boss that he would be out for the rest of today— his prediction software is contradictory to that wish. Expected.

“Ah, I’m sure Fowler’ll be fine.” She says, but her half-shrug is telling. The Captain may be  tolerant of androids and of Hank, but Connor would like some face to face interaction to solidify his thoughts on the Captain. Knowing the superiors is important.

Connor decides to entertain Officer Pearson on the way back, as both another ‘thank you’ and as a way to maintain her interest in him. She could turn into a reliable resource at the DPD if necessary.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : RUN CALIBRATION SOFTWARE.

Connor’s coin tricks are familiar and mindless— Officer Pearson’s expression brightens with a delighted smile. Running through his usual pattern is simple enough, then he adds in a trick here and there. The sound of the metal on his fingers and the flash of the metal details in the light keep Officer Pearson distracted until they make it back onto the main floor.

As Connor slips the coin back into his pocket, he reaches for Officer Pearson's cup. Her eyes move from his hand, up his arm and chest to his face. Appreciative. Connor already expects her answer but he asks regardless. 

“May I refill this for you, Officer?” He alters his voice to be more formal, a hint of a manufactured polish to his vowels. He makes sure his motion could be subconsciously likened to a waiter’s bow as if presenting food. It isn’t his usual function, but he can mimic the appropriate behavior well enough.

“Of course, Connor. Thank you.”

Connor doesn’t taste the remains of her old coffee until he is hidden from sight in the break room.

ANALYZING…

16% SUGAR, 35% VANILLA SOY MILK. CAFFEINATED.

Connor estimates the total capacity of the coffee cup, the amount of coffee, the proper amount of milk, and the sugar needed. The coffee is still hot even with the refrigerated soy milk. His skin acts as an insulator; Connor retracts the skin on his hands yet again to draw away some of the heat into his Thirium. It only takes a few moments after he directs the flow to increase to his peripheral. Now when he hands her the coffee, it is a perfect temperature.

He slides a sleeve on it to preserve the remaining heat.

“Thanks, Connor! You’re a saint, really.” Officer Pearson is disproportionately excited about her coffee. Detective Reed is still paying attention to anything but his work. Both are paying attention to him, the new model, for different reasons. 

“He’s an android,” Detective Reed mutters, loud enough for Officer Pearson to hear as well. There is detectable irritation in his voice— Connor predicts it to be because of the detective’s attempt to use his own coffee to try to intimidate Connor. 

“The best,” Officer Pearson agrees with a wink. Connor enables her good mood by matching her wink with his own. Her grin turns wry, playful.

“Hell yeah.” She raises her coffee in a small, mocking cheer. Connor nods to excuse himself, ignoring Detective Reed’s disgust.

  
  


Captain Fowler is not impressed with Connor.

The Captain grants Connor the time to fill him in on the necessary details of Lieutenant Anderson’s absence. The entire time Connor talks, Captain Fowler glances up from his work less than 3% of the time. Complete disinterest in Connor’s physical presence. It is interesting. Connor expects other officers to ignore him like they do other androids— but not the Captain. He is the one that had to approve of Connor’s presence.

CyberLife did not inform Connor if they had to make a hard sell to get him involved.

Androids are equipment. It is not necessary to give them any attention while they work. Connor is used to interactions from the people around him— nothing he has done yet has impressed Captain Fowler or proven Connor’s vast difference to regular androids. He is a prototype, the most advanced android  in the public eye. Captain Fowler does not know or he does not care. 

It would be a mistake to linger any longer than necessary, so Connor waits a pause to see if the Captain has any directives for him. Nothing.

“Have a good day, Captain.” Connor leaves.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : CAPTAIN FOWLER, JEFFREY DOES NOT INTERACT WITH UNIT. CHANGE PERCEPTION: LOW PRIORITY.

Captain Fowler is not yet aware of Connor’s ability to make decisions and act based off of critical thinking. His level of autonomy is off the charts compared to domestic models. It would be dangerous and slow to need a command for every single action he were to take. Anderson takes it all in stride because he doesn’t care about androids. Officer Pearson is enamored with Connor’s model— she has the same enthusiasm as a tech. Captain Fowler lumps Connor in with every other android he has ever interacted with.

It is an incorrect assumption, but Connor does not need to spend excessive amounts of time with the Captain. There would be a low return for the effort Connor spent changing his mind.

Conor’s secondary optical sensors catch Detective Reed watching as Connor parks himself in an empty charging station. The automated port tries to get him to dump information like a normal police model. There is no option to decline. Instead, Connor satisfies the system by giving it the recent footage of talking to Captain Fowler and Officer Pearson so he can charge in peace.

**CHARGING STATION IDENTIFIED.** SUBOPTIMAL POWER. AVERAGE PERFORMANCE CHARGING STATION.

Connor couldn’t expect a police station to have the same caliber of technology as CyberLife. This charging station power is not designed to handle Connor’s high efficiency, high capacity batteries. Most androids have a single average unit. Police units have two. 

**WARNING** : FIND HIGH-EFFICIENCY STATION. Connor swipes away the error message. He is not going back to CyberLife to charge at his designated station. The DPD’s mediocre equipment will have to do. He is here while Anderson cannot be.

TIME TO FULL CHARGE: 7 HOURS 25 MINUTES AND 22 SECONDS. 13% CHARGE

That is 320% less efficient than CyberLife. There is time to spend while Anderson is recovering.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : TAG MOTION SENSOR, VISUAL TO LIEUTENANT ANDERSON, HANK’S DESK CHAIR. IF ACTIVATED, THEN INITIATE AWAKE MODE.

ENTERING SLEEP MODE. PERFORMING MAINTENANCE TASKS. CHARGING…

CHARGING… 

CHARGING...

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[11.06.2038; 07:51:05 PM]

It is raining. Connor’s tactile sensors activate in quiet, random intervals to match the droplets hitting synthetic skin. Amanda’s garden is peaceful in a different way than he’s seen. Overcast, unified by the raindrops splattering all over the plants and walkways.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : ISOLATE RAINDROP INPUT

ISOLATING…

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : FILTER OUT AUDITORY INPUTS TO A DECREASE OF 75%

**FIND AMANDA**

Connor identifies an umbrella in his left hand. It gives him an excuse to not search for his coin. It is never in his pocket when he talks to Amanda.

Walking brings attention to the water soaked into his fabric. It is a unique sensation Connor has never experienced. The ambient temperature of it reads at 70°F.

**AMANDA FOUND**

Her yellow shawl contrasts against the vegetation. Amanda always brings clarity and direction. Connor refrains from trying to analyze her until the conversation begins.

“Hello, Amanda.”

“Connor, I’ve been expecting you.”

Amanda’s head moves less than half an inch to acknowledge him. Disappointed. Her tone locks in at neutral, giving him no read of her thoughts.

“Would you mind a little walk?” She is more expressive with her offer— Connor knows it isn’t one at all. He  gives a hint of a slight smile to display appeasement and an eagerness to obey as he opens the umbrella for her.

Silent, Amanda glances at him. Connor expects a reprimand. 

“That deviant seemed to be an intriguing case.” 5.05 seconds of pause until Amanda initiates the conversation.

A moderate scolding. Connor is aware of his perceived missteps. CyberLife expects results— and Connor does, too. But he is not self-requiring immediate gratification at the expense of the delicate relationship he builds with Lieutenant Anderson. 

Connor turns his head to track Amanda’s microexpressions.

“A pity you didn't manage to capture it.” Amanda’s glare is direct with irritation. 

Connor shares her same frustrations. It would have been ideal to catch the deviant, of course. Three deviants have slipped past his hands now— he should not have let Anderson dissuade him from chasing down the Williamson’s androids. 

“I agree,” Connor says after a pause to consider himself. ”I may not be suited for the investigation. Maybe you should consider replacing me.”

Connor is 85% certain CyberLife has not yet considered failing him so early in his work. Amanda looks him over, critical, but  her frown disappears with approval of Connor’s blunt self-reflection.

“”Did you manage to learn anything?” Amanda’s smiles are rare, subtle. Connor did not return empty-handed. The case was not a wash-out by any stretch— however, there is always room for perfection. It should be attainable.

“The walls of the apartment were covered with drawings of labyrinths and other symbols. Like the Ortiz deviant, it seemed obsessed with rA9.” Connor begins with the obvious link between cases. Half of the deviants he has run into with Anderson have referenced rA9. Had they been exposed to something or someone the Williamson deviants hadn’t? 

It is too early to make any conjectures. Having the deviant to study is the best way to continue forward.

“Anything else?” Amanda asks. Connor has the sudden thought that talking with Anderson over the cases would be much different. The Lieutenant had been there, seen what Connor had  from Anderson’s own perspective. A human complements the investigation, thinking in a way Connor was  never programmed to do. There cannot be manufactured creativity.

The prior statement contradicts the other evidence: the diary.

“I found  its diary, but it was encrypted. It may take weeks to decipher.”

The complexity of the encryption is the part Connor is most confused over. He was designed to have the best processing and calculating abilities technology could support. A common android somehow created a code Connor needs to chip at for weeks in order to solve. There is a low percentage of the diary being a ruse of nonsense.

“You came very close to capturing that deviant.”

Connor has nothing to say. He lets his silence agree with her.

“How is your relationship with the Lieutenant developing?” 

If Connor only had a concrete answer for Anderson's confusing, unpredictable  behavior . 

“Saving his life on the roof positively affected our relationship. I have yet to see how this will influence the investigation moving forward.” Connor decides to settle on a semi-neutral presentation of his observations and predictions. He does not mention the negative impact of choosing  the deviant over the Lieutenant’s life. CyberLife is not one to concern themselves over collateral.

Connor, preoccupied with Anderson’s behavior again, takes a few steps before he realizes Amanda stopped walking with him. He turns.

“We don’t have much time.” Amanda reminds him of the racing clock running against them. “Deviancy continues to spread. It is only a matter of time before the media finds out about it. We need to stop this, whatever it takes.”

It is a warning twice over for Connor. A machine is replaceable, and the life of one is not worth the good of the many. Connor tilts his chin down to acknowledge her serious, grim tone. 

“I will solve this investigation, Amanda.” Connor watches her expression, looking for trust he does not find.

“I won’t disappoint you,” Connor continues. Waiting—

“A new case just came in. Find Anderson and investigate it.”

It is the harshest dismissal Amanda has delivered. Connor stands motionless in the rain,  his systems cascading out of the garden.

REORIENTING PRIMARY SYSTEMS…

RESTORING INITIAL AND CURRENT FUNCTIONS TO ALL PROCESSORS…

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**SPATIAL AWARENESS SENSORS #1-4** : EXTREME CLOSE PROXIMITY TO UNKNOWN PERSON.

“Hello, Detective Reed.”

Connor identifies the detective before his eyes open. That was a mistake.

_ “Jesus—!” _

**WARNING: DANGER!**

His primary visual sensors catch on the sharp jerk Detective Reed’s hand makes towards his holstered gun. Connor cuts his breathing and the step he was planning on taking off the charging terminal. Making sure to blink and slowly shift his head, Connor allows Detective Reed to finish taking a reflexive step backward before he speaks again.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : DISCARD WARNING

“Good evening. Did you need anything, Detective?” Connor manages a deferring smile, ignoring the expletives Detective Reed hisses under his breath. While the detective's initial reaction was hostile, there was only a 35% chance of him shooting Connor. For 0.49 of a second.

It is an interesting first impulse.

“I thought androids were off while there.” Detective Reed’s snarled, implied question is why Connor is responsive and the other androids are not. Connor does not require external prompting to be in an active state. 

It is a possibility that Connor’s unpredictableness is exasperating the detective’s poor mood.  Detective Reed knows more about androids than Anderson— unusual behavior makes him more irritable.

Connor does not have a better idea besides ignoring the detective as much as possible without being perceived as rude. No matter Connor’s behavior, each interaction with Detective Reed has a 78% chance of a worsening relationship. All on the detective’s end.

While appeasement is an option, it is not one Connor is inclined to. He likes to remain professional.  

“There is another deviancy case—”

“That’s why I was gonna get you, asshole!”

Detective Reed’s temper is unchecked with no one else in the bullpen to complain. The night shift already started. Officer Miller must be somewhere else. They are on the deviancy case as well as auxiliary personnel.

Officer Miller is diplomatic and friendly. He also regulates Detective Reed’s outbursts. Connor does not want to stay here any longer than necessary. There is enough room for him to step off the charging terminal, but not to get around Detective Reed.

“Thank you, Detective Reed. I will contact Lieutenant Ander—”

Detective Reed sneers, having recovered from being startled.

“Hank’s unreachable. Worthless drunk. I’ll be at the crime scene, doing actual work.” Is that gloating Connor detects? Connor does not run analysis software in case he is correct. It would do him no benefit— defending Anderson to an empty room is not required.

> **MANUAL_INPUT** : PULL LIEUTENANT ANDERSON, HANK’S ADDRESS FROM DPD FILES

LOCATING…

FOUND ADDRESS

“I will go to Lieutenant Anderson’s house and arrive with him,” Connor says, modulating his tone to be cool and with less emotion than he usually allows. Detective Reed’s eyes narrow in dislike. Maybe even hatred.

“You’re unauthorized to enter the crime scene without Hank.” Detective Reed is doing everything to get in the way. Connor does not appreciate it.

A slight nod is all the detective gets in acknowledgement. Connor refuses to blink or breathe, staring at Detective Reed until he gets out of the way. Detective Reed moves after 28 seconds, unsettled by Connor’s deliberate slide into the uncanny valley.

He does not seem to know why Connor’s presence was so off-putting all of a sudden.

 

If Connor has to carry Anderson to the crime scene to investigate it, he will. Catching this deviant should be done with all means necessary. Failing a fourth time needs to be impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I am back, finally.
> 
> How was this chapter? I'm worried that it doesn't read as well as Connor's last chapter because of nonsense detailed below. 
> 
> For the TL;DR version: I had to quit university for this year because of severe mental health. Diagnosed with major depression and anxiety. Meds help but aren't perfect. I'm back to writing now that I am home, but I can't do it all the time. I will be working on this fic more consistently in between the bad days.


	6. This Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank: "imma talk some damn sense into this android"
> 
> Connor, sobbing: "idk what to do! Just tell me!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Alcoholism, threats of gun violence. Excessive swearing. Suicidal ideation.

God-fucking-damn this fucking android!

Any false impression of a reasonable mood is gone with the alcohol filtering out of his system. Clean up was a bitch. Deviants getting away again— fucking lesbian androids in love with one another. In what possible way could a machine of metal and electricity come up with something as human as love?

The case is fucking with him.

Connor slinks behind him while the cops wrap up the scene. Its— fucking fine! —  _ his _ behavior sets Hank’s teeth on edge. Hank is the mess here. He is the fuck-up wandering around the precinct but this time Hank is the only one seeing the shit.

His mood festers with his headache.

Fuck facades. Hank reaches into the back row of his car and rips a beer from the case not at all hidden on the floor. He drinks it all before peeling off the curb. Conor is silent. LED thing blinking warning yellow. Shit on a stick and shove it up his ass.

How is he supposed to make heads or tails of this bullshit?

Anger clouds his mind better than alcohol. A confused, misdirected anger bubbling up from the bottomless pit Hank covers with mean-spirited sarcasm and despair. The old steering wheel creaks under his numb hands. Hank drives on autopilot, wondering if Connor is refusing to talk this time because the android senses the atmosphere waiting for the right spark to ignite. Like he did the same few shitty hours before.

Today turned into a special kind of hell.

Hank doesn’t know what would come out of his mouth if he opened it, so he keeps his jaw clenched tight and stares blind at the road instead of the android. He knows himself at least that well. Connor has enough sense to keep his damn mouth shut for once. For fucking once. 

 

_ Oh, fuck this. _

Hank blinks and finds himself staring through the playground and out across the water from the car, engine silent and interior cool. They have been sitting here for a few minutes if the outside chill creeps in.

“Motherfucker,” Hank hisses, then slams both hands against the steering wheel. Connor does not flinch, but Hank can sense he startled. It is impossible for Hank to act like a decent person right now. Anything to not freak out the android is way too above him. 

“Stay in the car for once, jesus!” Hank says— or maybe he yells. Connor looks at him with that two-faced, too-innocent eyes. It’s bullshit. It is a ploy, a mask to make the damn walking computer seem real. One thing humans can do well, Hank included: project emotions and anthropomorphize objects. 

“Stay,” Hank growls, pointing a warning finger at Connor. With the kind of venom he never directs at Sumo. He takes the case of beer from the back seat. Sure, public intoxication is against the law. No one in their right mind would be out at this hour of the night at a playground. Jeffrey would beat his ass for drinking here— but Hank would have to care. 

Footprints follow him as Hank trudges through the snow. He maintains a wide berth around the playground to the scenic path along the waterfront. 

His bench is empty and coated in snow and ice. Hank sits down without wiping the seat off, the beer bottles clinking together when he dumps the case at his feet. If he had something stronger he could pass the fuck out and freeze to death in the cold. Looking like some sad homeless person to tie up the rest of his miserable excuse of existence.

The second beer goes down as fast as the first, easier than the hard liquor he was slamming earlier today. Chasing the bright fear-of-death spark falling off a roof did to him earlier that afternoon. Shocked by his body’s biology kicking his self-preservation out of dormancy and into hyperdrive. Odd how something as simple as tripping off a multi-story edge could make him feel alive in the first time in ten fucking years of cold molasses hell. And as quick as the adrenaline burned, it was gone. Leaving Hank with the odd sensation of some sort of empty obligation to thank an android for saving his life— he expected Connor to take off after the deviant.

An almost colossal clusterfuck had more emotion in it than the hundreds of nights Hank stared down the barrel of his revolver, drunker than anything ought to be, Schrodinger’s chamber waiting for the trigger to reveal the truth.

The third beer is like water.

It ain’t helping the hangover hanging over him. Hank doesn’t have enough beer with him to match the alcohol’s impact with more vicious pain-killing poison. It is too familiar to avoid the pain with more drinks to push it pass his brain’s conscious ability to process. It is hard to acknowledge a hangover if he never stops drinking.

Fucking androids.

Hank does not differentiate if the sudden dark burn in him is anger or bile or his abused liver finally protesting his irresponsible lifestyle— the bottle in his hand shatters against the metal rail, sending a spray of brown-tinted glass scattering across the sidewalk and into the river.

What kind of fucked-up son-of-a-bastard beats a sex-bot to death? Who even gets off on that? Perverted fuck! Taking his fantasies to a thing instead of a somebody because decent people don’t do that to another—

Jesus, the android was unexpectedly human during the reboot. If her blood had been red instead of blue, if he had seen organs instead of wires and it was EMTs instead of Connor trying to coax a coherent answer out of her it would have been a scene Hank has seen before and again and again… 

Hank’s skin still crawls. It feels like the kind of place with the under the table shit where he’d expect child androids in the back room and the perps of cold cases keeping a low profile by defiling androids to avoid the law. Why the fuck is it legal for that place to exist? Was any creep allowed to walk in and do whatever to an android what he couldn’t get away with to a person?

Not to get into the life-like behavior programmed into the androids, christ! If you’re designing a robot to make it as human as possible, doesn’t that create a recipe for psychopaths? Anyone who can do anything like that to something that looks and acts so human, so real should be fucking investigated—

Is this his fifth beer? His sixth?

It’s all the same damn root problem. Androids are robots but they look human enough to fool people. Hank’s got his head wrapped about the case all wrong. The dead Traci’s programming was too accurate. He stalls to remember android damage is property damage and not assault or murder. Jesus fuck, he’s a homicide detective and all he’s been getting are broken android cases.

What is it with the deviants, huh? Why can’t CyberLife fix their own damn androids? And why send Connor instead of… Hank doesn’t know… a fuckin’ tech with a Ph.D. in some kind of robot code behavioral studies or some shit?

Hank rolls the empty bottle in his palms, thinking. As much as he can think with this much alcohol clouding his beat-up brain. It’s a good time to reflect. Cold, quiet. The ass-end of the night, some ungodly hour of human functioning. He used to work on cases during this kind of time instead of drinking and playing with his own fate. Back when—

Hank sighs.

On cue, a car door closing echoes across the frozen park. Fuckin’ androids. Specifically this one. In preparation, Hank opens another beer. He attempts to rub away the ache in his left temple.

Connor cuts across the playground, through the puddles of dirty slush and old snow. Approaching at a slow, wide arc once he gets close enough like Hank is gonna spook and throw himself off the scenic walkway. He already had a chance at it today and he didn’t take it, thanks.

When Hank glances over at him, Connor looks away like he wasn’t looking back. Towards the city’s lights across the blackness of the river.

“Nice view, huh?” It is something Hank would say to a person, but instead he is about to start chatting with an android in the middle of an empty playground. Maybe someone will call the cops. 

“I used to come here a lot, before,” Hank’s mouth continues without the filter of his soaked brain. He stops that sentence before it turns into a tangible thing on the table, giving Connor permission to prod.

The beer is as cold as the air biting in Hank’s lungs. It sucks those thoughts out of his head and buries them in Hank’s stomach. 

“Before what?”

  
“Hmm?” Hank swallows, clears his throat.

“You said ‘I used to come here a lot before,’” Connor prods. “Before what?”

The damn thing can’t help it, Hank reminds himself as the anger claws back into his chest, drenched in bile and void. Give an android detective an inch, it’ll take a mile. Isn’t that the saying, or something similar? Not that it is fair to accidentally give an inch, a hint when Hank is doing his best alcoholic bit. 

“Before…” Hank repeats, to himself. Looks down to stare at the bottle clenched in his numb, cold-cracked hands and the snow filling the wrinkles in his clothes. 

“Before nothin’.”

Frozen chains of the swings creak in the wind. If his house was as quiet as the playground Hank would have shattered the silence with his revolver long ago.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?”

Christ on a cross, Connor. Hank looks at him in disbelief, then takes in the android’s folded arms and snow-brushed hair and jacket. An android can’t be cold, can it? Connor would say something— he always finds an excuse to talk.

“Do all androids ask personal questions or is it just you?”

Hank accuses Connor of prying, knowing damn well Connor’s ability to respect boundaries is arbitrary and transient. Nothing comes to mind that could possibly prevent Connor from asking his all-important question.

In the silence, Connor stands there calculating whatever odds he wants before he continues digging into Hank’s life. The pause is enough for Hank to reconsider allowing the android to join him instead of sending him back to the car.

“I saw a photo of a child on your kitchen table,” begins Connor with as much artificial diplomacy as the android can muster. Hank turns away, back to the bottle. Empty heart sinking to his stomach, making him sick.

“He was your son, right?”

Fuckin’ Connor, asking questions he already knows the answers to. Analyzing Hank’s house, uninvited. Uncovering all the ugly shit. Thinking Hank sharing information somehow changes how Hank feels about him.

“Yeah,” Hank breathes out some of the grief filling his lungs. “That’s Cole.”

Cole, who loved this playground and couldn’t stop asking Hank for details from his cases. He played in the snow with little puppy Sumo until Hank bribed him to come back inside with hot chocolate and marshmallows they toasted in the fireplace. Cole is why Hank came home after a shift to prepare meals and work from his home office during late nights. Hank wouldn’t be out in the middle of the fucking night with nothing but anger and alcohol and a goddamn android at an empty playground and no fucking leads in a case Hank doesn’t care about.

Hank wore his kevlar enhanced uniform and carried high-tech equipment in his armored DPD issued police car instead of driving a piece of junk and wearing old clothes from a different era in his life. Instead of the revolver heavier than lead in his jacket pocket, both a warning and promise Hank could lift it up and blow his brains out whenever he wants.

When Connor steps away from Hank, towards the railing, Hank follows. Abandoning the beer for something meaner— Connor turns, scans Hank’s biosigns or something and concludes Hank is pissed about the same time Hank intrudes on the android’s space.

“You could’ve shot those two girls, but you didn’t.” The growl in Hank’s voice hides the curiosity eating him through since he picked himself off the concrete to see Connor unable to pull the trigger. Hank missed many clues in his life, but projecting hesitation onto an android isn’t one of them— he fucking watched Connor hesitate and lower the gun.

Hank shoves Connor back a step. “Why didn’t you shoot, Connor?”

Silent, Connor stares at him, eyes darting across Hank’s face. Mouth parted to mimic shock. His delay is enough evidence to mull over, but Hank presses. There is a detective under all the pathetic shit he piles on. 

“Some scruples suddenly enter into your program?” Hank takes a half-step closer to push for an answer. One second, two—

“I would have shot them if I could!”

_ Liar. _

Connor keeps his eyes locked on Hank to see if his ill-fitted anger works. It doesn’t. Hank’s lip curls in disgust. It is too prescriptive, too clean. His gut calls Connor out on his bullshit. Hank takes the tip.

“Why would I let them escape?” Connor is defensive, reflecting back to Hank. Why?

Humans are damn good at picking up subconscious clues. An android cannot compete with Hank’s instinct, technology be damned. Connor changes his act at the moment Hank tries to figure him out.

Hank realizes he is too fucking drunk when he pulls his gun on Connor.

A shift in Connor’s eyes, dark and wide. Hands curled at his sides. Connor stands still, the wind tugging at his light jacket. Mouth closed without expressing anything else. Hank’s arm does not waver, locked dead center on the android’s forehead. His aim is true after years of muscle memory. The revolver is never steady pointed at himself.

“Are you afraid to die, Connor?”

A pause Hank breaths through, steady and even.

Connor does not breath at all.

“I would certainly find it regrettable,” says Connor with weight behind his words for the gravity of his situation. “To be… interrupted… before I can finish the investigation.” Verbally tiptoeing on the glass shards Hank forces him to cross. Unsure of what he is being asked to do.

Hank shifts to aim between Connor’s eyes, searching. Not satisfied.

“What’ll happen if I pull this trigger? Hmm?” Connor’s eyes dart to the barrel inches from him. “Nothing? Oblivion?” A pound more of pressure on the trigger and end of discussion. Trigger discipline only matters if Hank did not have half a mind to shoot. 

Hank’s grim, bitter smile draws Connor’s attention back to him. “Android heaven?”

The untamable piece of hair falls over Connor’s temple, speckled with snow like the rest of him. He does not produce the body temperature to melt it off.

“Nothing,” the android whispers, lost. “There would be nothing.”

Hank recognizes Connor’s realization. In its eyes, in the face designed to be likable, endearing. Instead, Hank watches an artificial intelligence grapple with the consequences of a loaded gun pointed at its head, trying to define its existence.

Anger and adrenaline fiz out. His hand shakes and the gun dips before Hank drops his arm. Nothing, huh? The seductive reason drawing Hank back again to the revolver. Why suicide is such a tempting offer— because it is an out, a promise that all of this can end whenever Hank decides enough is enough.

“Where are you going?” Connor asks, back to android detective mode when Hank picks up the empty case of beer before walking off.

“To get drunker.” Hank tosses his trash into the can. “I need to think.”

  
  


 

 

Jimmy’s Bar closes late. Not late enough.

Hank quiets the questions swirling around his head with quality scotch until he has to think about the cost-benefit of more alcohol versus less money in his account. Goddamn it— he needs to file for compensation for all those Tracies. Fowler’s gonna laugh at that. The bank… not so much. 

Jimmy shuts down at four in the morning. Of patrons still here, Hank is the one who does not put up a fuss. He pays his tab, shrugs into his coat, and heads outside. Cold air bites through the drunken haze. Before Hank can process why his keys are missing from his pocket, he sees— 

The fuck?!

“Connor!” Hank bangs on the passenger glass. “The hell you doin’, asshole?”

The android blinks, turns to look at Hank through the frosted glass. Hank has no idea if Connor was pretending to sleep, or if he can actually boot up within a second.

Connor opens a hand and shows Hank his keys. Hank gapes at him and raps on the window again. It’s fucking cold out. 

“I don’t need a designated driver! Fuck off with this shit.”

“You are not in a state to be driving. Legally.” Connor says, getting out of the car. Hank holds out a hand to demand his keys. The damn android glances down, then looks Hank in his eyes. 

“I can call you a taxi if you prefer. I’ve calculated your blood alcohol content to be far above the legal limits; I cannot permit you to drive home, Lieutenant.”

“Jesus— give me those!”

Hank swipes for his keys. Drunk him has no chance against an android. Connor tucks his hand back into his pocket. He refuses to budge when Hank shoves him, frustrated. Connor’s sudden iron will is the android’s equivalent of irritation. Stubborn dick.

It has been one hell of a day.

“Fine. Get in the fuckin’ car, then.” Hank snaps, resigned.

Androids cannot let people get away with illegal behavior— considering Hank’s public intoxication, Connor already let his behavior slide. He will never be drunk enough to argue with an android in the middle of an empty, icy parking lot behind a closed bar.

Connor does not tease or lecture Hank. The old car cruises along, quiet and smooth under Connor’s legal driving. Hank watches him check the mirrors and speedometer at standard intervals. No one drives like that.

Hank rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut. He is too drunk. The road swims more than he can handle. There is little traffic to avoid. He knows his way home well enough to crawl home in his car at a quarter of the speed.

Resting his head against the cold glass soothes Hank’s headache for the remaining drive. He drinks too much often. The hangover in the morning will be bitch he can function with if he wakes up late. Textbook alcoholic behavior.

“Lieutenant!”

Hank jumps— they’re home.

“I forgot about the broken window!”

Hell. 

Connor jumps out of the car. Hank opens the passenger door and leans out, watching Connor, panicked, poke at the shards left in the window frame. The spare key taped to the underside of the porch railing is pure ice in his hands. Connor still has his keys and Hank isn’t going to ask for them in case of another denial. 

“Supplies in the garage, if you’re so inclined to patch it up,” Hank says as he lets himself in. Connor’s yellow LED is easily spotted through the dark kitchen. Completely distracted.

Fuckin’ android.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

“The fuck you doing here?”

Hank asks with little bite. Thanks to the brewed coffee waiting for him when he managed to roll himself and his hangover out of bed. It is past ten. The lack of angry voicemail from Fowler means Connor must have taken care of Hank’s late start.

The android sits tucked up against the porch railing, knees to his chin with snow piling on him. A nudge from Hank’s socked foot wakes up Connor. The temple LED lights up blue, spins for a moment, and solidifies into a yellow circle as Connor blinks his eyes open.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Connor says like he didn’t spend the night sitting on Hank’s porch like a kicked dog.

The broken window was sealed with plastic and cardboard wedged into the window to keep out the elements. Everything was cut at stupid perfect right angles and fit seamlessly into the window frame. And his kitchen was spotless. Revolver— somehow fucking pickpocketed from his jacket last night— sitting in his unlocked gun case set in the hallway wall.

Cradling his second mug of coffee, Hank stands in the warmth of the doorway threshold. Staring Connor down. The android avoids eye contact after a moment, looking… ashamed? Guilty? Last night was way too many emotions and revelations Drunk-Hank did not know what to do with. Sober-but-hungover-Hank has a long wind-up time before he is ready to work. 

“We need to talk.”

Connor stands up, clumsy and slow. “Yes, Lieutenant. We should discuss the case—”

“Can you not touch anything?”

If Hank turns around, he expects his house to be fucking reorganized according to whatever cleaning program is stuck in Connor’s head. What kind of walking forensic lab would willingly clean Hank’s kitchen? And of all possible androids, Connor has the streak of ignoring direct orders. 

After a moment of confusion, Connor reverts back into too-cheerful default mode. “Yes.” 

“Great!” Hank gestures with false enthusiasm, not yet willing to yell at Connor on his porch before his neighbors. They know he’s fucked up— crazy does not need to be added to Hank’s list. “Get in.”

Connor brushes off as much snow as he can. Ice crusts the edges where he made contact with the ground. Jesus. Sitting out in this kind of weather without going back to CyberLife. Hank assumes Connor would have left if the weather was too dangerous for his tech.

Once Hank consumes enough coffee, his detective senses will be back on the case of what-the-hell-is-up-with-this-android. He needs a solid partner to deal with the the-fuck-is-wrong-with-all-these-androids case.

Connor knocks off enough ice to be allowed to dethaw in the house. Hank lets him in, watching the android shrink a little as he walks past. Oddly submissive behavior from Connor.

“Kitchen,” Hank gestures. “Take a seat.”

Connor sits in the chair closest to the repaired window, causing Hank to wonder if androids are bothered by cold temperatures. They cannot possibly feel it the same people can. Maybe only when the temperature is low enough to cause damage— it would explain why Connor sulked on the porch all night. Maybe, to Connor, it isn’t any worse than sitting in the office.

Damn, the coffee is good. Exactly how Hank takes it. Do all androids make coffee like this? Is that why so many people have their androids prepare food for them? It is better than anything Hank could do, and not needing to prepare coffee in the morning would be nice as hell.

“Lieutenant,” Connor starts.

“What?”

“May I pet Sumo?”

Hank turns around from topping off his wonderful cup of coffee. Hungover-Hank drinks it by the buckets. 

The monster dog in question has his head in Connor’s lap, drooling and wagging his tail. Eager for the attention Hank doesn’t provide often enough. Sumo does not fit under the table but he tried anyway.

“Yeah, whatever.” Hank sits down.

Sumo, the dirty traitor, does not understand Hank wants to put pressure on Connor. Sumo accepts head scratches with a dopey dog grin. Last night the damn dog didn’t do anything to deter Connor from breaking in. (Okay, Sumo doesn’t actually know the command ‘attack’ but not from a lack of training. The best he can do is fierce licking to the face). 

Hank stares Connor down over the edge of his steaming mug. The android keeps his eyes on Sumo. If Connor was human, Hank would say it is guilt or shame. Androids, though…

Sighing, Hank rubs his temples. Last night made no fucking sense and Connor complicated all of it. Being drunk didn’t help— somehow, Hank has to pick at whatever Connor was uneasy about last night.

“I’m getting real tired of this case.”

That gets Connor’s attention. Damn thing is required to put all his effort into solving the deviancy case. And Hank would believe it if Connor didn’t have such a bad history of wrapping up cases.

“I assure you, CyberLife is—”

Hank waves off the CyberLife shit. Yeah, he knows. He swears a quarter of Connor’s conversations have something to do with CyberLife. Talk about a broken record.

“Those two girls, they really seemed in love…” If Hank observed the Williams androids, he wonders if they are similar. One deviant is an anomaly, but two? At the same place, at the same time?

“They can simulate human emotions, but they’re machines,” Connor says, firm and almost harsh. “And machines don’t feel anything.”

Feeling defensive? Hank, as much as he wants to, doesn’t push as directly as he could.

“Then two androids just happened to model a pair of love-sick lesbians running away together? Simulation, my ass. The club didn’t provide any sort of model for that.” Even if the androids saw two women act that way, the memory wipes every two hours are not helping Connor’s blind bias. It’s like having a walking, talking propaganda machine.

Connor is uncomfortable. Sumo gets more nuanced attention, much to the dog’s pleasure. His tongue leaves a growing wet spot on Connor’s slacks. If Sumo wasn’t here, Connor’s quarter would have made an appearance. 

“Androids are not humans, Lieutenant. They cannot love.”

Plenty of people can’t, either. Doesn’t make androids special.

Hank shrugs. “It looked a lot like love to me. Every deviant I’ve seen seems pretty convinced they’re feeling real—”

“Lieutenant, It is an error in their programming. Androids become deviant, then begin to act out of parameters—”

“Jesus, Connor. Stop recycling what CyberLife told you. They’re convinced they know the answer but they haven’t been able to do jack-shit. I’m saying, after being on the case, it appears distress causes deviation. And if an android thinks it is danger, it must be real to them.”

“Most androids act within appropriate parameters during stress and never show any sign of deviancy.” Connor counters like his point is a checkmate.

Christ. The implications of the expected treatment of androids. No wonder CyberLife is freaking the fuck out if their androids are no longer willing to be punching bags for shit-heads. It is bad press if androids start acting in self-defense. Does CyberLife know what percentage of their customers are abusive? Is that why they are in a panic?

“Why haven’t androids gone deviant before? Why now, specifically?” Hank tries his damndest to corner Connor in his own logic.

“The reason has not been determined yet, Lieutenant.” Connor is, to an admirable fault, consistent.

“Come on, Connor. You can’t tell me there hasn’t been a single deviant android since CyberLife started manufacturing them before now.” Hank thinks less of the damn company every time he hears more about it. He wasn’t in love to start with. 

Connor pauses. “It is… statistically unlikely.”

Hank lets him think on that one. Connor’s light swirls in a thoughtful blue. It would be nice to have a super AI on the case if Connor was not limited to thinking in whatever little boxes CyberLife pre-set for him.

“Forget about what CyberLife has been telling you and focus on what we’re actually seeing,” Hank prods. “You were told to help  _ me. _ Connor, I don’t give two shits what CyberLife says.”

“CyberLife wants me to solve this case—”

“Yeah, but it isn’t their case, is it?”

Connor’s gaze is critical, focused. Thinking.

Hank has him now. Time to reel him in with actual work.

“Forget CyberLife. What do we know?” Hank stretches until his back and neck pop to release the tension both in him and for Connor. Who knows how much mental gymnastics it took for Connor to get to where Hank pushed him.

“All the deviancy cases we’ve been assigned are preceded by high levels of stress in the deviants,” Connor begins, somewhat confident once Hank nods in approval. “All stress is external.”

“Does stress cause deviancy or does deviancy cause sensitivity to stress?” Hank muses. Chicken, egg, technically. But the distinction is important. If deviancy is predetermined it will be near-impossible to identify future deviants without CyberLife’s help.

Sumo whines for more attention. Connor obliges. The big spoiled baby.

“Androids do not go deviant from stress. It would be far more frequent. Deviancy is an irreparable error in a program.” Connor replies.

Stress can’t be the only trigger, Hank gets that. But to say deviants occur without stress is… not supported by evidence. If it is predetermined, surely CyberLife would have figured it out by now. If deviancy is solely caused by stress, why aren’t there more deviants?

“Okay, then. Where are these deviants that aren’t caused by stress? Why can’t we find those deviants?”

And there he lost Connor again. Connor blinks, expression blank. His ‘stalled’ face Hank realizes he’s seen more than a few times. Poor android, trying to solve something past a human’s ability to comprehend. Artificial intelligences cannot do what is impossible to its creators— damn CyberLife, thinking an android is going to solve an android problem.

“Deviants that are not… acting deviant?” Connor clarifies.

Well, here goes nothing.

“Deviancy looks like a form of self-awareness.” Hank raises a hand to cut Connor’s interruption before it starts. “All these deviants acted out in response to something. Cortez’: it was being abused and then its owner started to beat it. Williams’: the nanny android took the child one away from an abusive dad”

Hank continues. “Is it possible to have a deviant android, but not yet at a point of stress to act out in such an obvious manner?”

Connor’s silence stretches. LED yellow, yellow… blue. “You mean, a deviant before it shows external signs of deviancy?”

“Unless you think it is one factor alone causing deviancy in any potential androids.” Finally, something productive. Hank wonders how much further they would be by now if CyberLife hadn’t fed Connor all this bullshit.

He watches Connor’s eyes dart side to side in rapid thought. Sumo, the shameless cuddler, sits between Connor’s legs and rests his big head in the android’s lap. Content with any form of physical contact.

“You think deviancy is a scale instead of a binary.”

Hank nods. “Those Tracis… they had been in love long before they killed a guy. One snapped because it thought it was about to be killed—”

“Destroyed,” Connor corrects with frightening speed.

“You know what I meant,” Hank grumbles. He’s trying, okay? Android terminology is beyond him.

Connor is hooked— his eyes are bright and his LED spins. The android’s face goes blank as he thinks.

“If we can figure out why deviancy starts, we’ll have a better chance of figuring shit out.” Hank waits a pause to see if Connor is willing to share anything yet. Hank is far from an expert on androids.

“If deviant behavior is a continuum, then there are behaviors that vary quantifiably in their deviancy,” Connor begins, lost in his own head. “An android can become deviant through repeated behaviors… It is an interesting thought, Lieutenant, but based on significant speculation.”

Hank shrugs. “But what if the environment of the android is causing a shift towards deviancy? You know, nature and nurture kind of deal. Take Williams’ androids. The older android was designed for housekeeping duties, including childcare. Williams wasn’t taking care of the child android, which kept leaving more duties to the older android. Do you think it is possible for micro-stress to cause a slow shift?”

“The YK500 would have looked elsewhere for input if Williams was not reliable— and the AX400 is designed to be a caretaker and homemaker. An unstable environment could cause them to— essentially— misalign their behaviors by increments until they were deivants. Becoming a positive feedback loop of deviancy.”

It does not sound unreasonable to Hank.

“Aren’t androids designed to adapt to their environments?” Hank knows the same model comes out as a blank factory mode with set behavior parameters. Surely living in a household causes each android to differ if the AI is designed to learn.

“Yes, all androids have the ability to self-write code. It is crucial to our ability to learn and adapt to live among humans.” Connor says like he’s reciting an instruction manual.

“So you do it, too. What’s stopping you from being deviant?”

Connor stills. “I have additional programming designed to limit the code I write. It is very difficult for any android to consciously edit their code unless it is to comply with directives of the owner.”

Fuckin’ hell, it's creepy to look a human-like figure in the eyes and hear it talk about owners and pre-set limitations like it is natural. Maybe Hank shouldn’t have boldly voiced such a question to an android like Connor. Connor seems to have way more thinking capabilities than most androids.

Hank turns his coffee mug. “Nice theory we’ve got, but the practical use is to be determined.”

Sumo sighs in agreement. Connor does not say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead, but mental health is worse. Idk, life is going, fam. I'm doing well enough, taking it easy :) Take care of yourselves, friends~
> 
> I am happy to post this (even tho I wanted to post before my beta got to it RIP). Onwards with the plot! Critiques are always welcome c:

**Author's Note:**

> Someone get a doctor because I'm gonna need a metal heart to deal with my android children.
> 
> Updates will be sporadic because... I got depression/anxiety combo and classes to manage.


End file.
